


what is life, but death pending

by Knightblazer



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: 1910s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bittersweet Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt, Light Angst, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mind Control, One-Sided Attraction, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22052779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightblazer/pseuds/Knightblazer
Summary: A DBH/Vampyr AU. Connor Arkay is a doctor working at Pembroke Hospital, one of the last bastions that stand in the way of the strange epidemic that's taking London hostage, and Dr. Henry Anderson is the renowned but yet mysterious new arrival that the Administrator Elijah Kamski brings in to join them one quiet night.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 22
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a long ass Twitter thread back in Nov/Dec 2019 which you can read [here](https://twitter.com/tasonado/status/1191195095053160450); this version on AO3 is edited for errors as well as a better narrative flow overall, so its recommended that you read this one.
> 
> Will be (hopefully) updated on a once per week basis up until I've gone through the whole thread. :) 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy the ride.

_“Death…_

_Since the apple was plucked from the sacred tree, mortality was believed to be God’s punishment; a righteous snare to keep mankind from ascending to the stars._

_They were all so wrong._

_Death is not a wicked thing, nor some holy retribution._

_A true punishment would be to never know it's sweet kiss._

_Awaken from the harshness and be born once more.”_

* * *

Upon a mountain of the dead and rotting, a man finds himself wrenched into life once more, eyes burning red as he stares up at a sky that will never shine for him again.

He stumbles out to the land of the living and is reunited with his wife, but all he knows in that moment is the hunger and the presence of a body next to his own that is so full of _life_.

The man feasts, quenching the hunger, only to discover what he’s done and despairs even as he runs away, struggling to understand this new existence he’s awoken to.

Eventually he meets a man—a doctor—who recognizes and offers him both shelter and an environment to work in, to blend in well enough while having the time to discover what has happened to both him and the city he’s returned to, so very different from when he had left.

And so this is how this man’s new life begins.

* * *

The night of Dr. Anderson’s arrival is fraught with activity. 

Not that such a thing is in anyway surprising, for the work at Pembroke is neverending. If anything it's to be expected, considering that they're working at the front lines of the epidemic that's currently taking London by storm, but Connor supposes he wasn't quite prepared to what he'd initially signed up for back then. Still, there’s no reason for him to complain; the work may be hard and incredibly challenging at times, but the fact that he knows he is able to make a difference is all the reward that he needs.

With how overworked everyone is having a new staff member is always welcome—though Connor supposes he would have appreciated said new staff member more if they did not also come with a brand new patient to deal with.

Nurse Crane grouses out as much as she heaves the unconscious form of Sean Hampton onto the bed with Connor's help. "I certainly hope Dr. Anderson will at least make the effort to deal with the patients that he's bringing in with him here," she mutters out as soon as they’ve deposited him in bed. 

Connor, who'd started giving said new patient a once over, pauses at her remark. "Dr. Anderson?" he asks with more than a hint of confusion. He's familiar enough with both the staff and patient registry that he knows there's no such person at the hospital—or at least one that bears that particular family name.

"Dr. Henry Anderson," she clarifies, and Connor's eyes widen as the name rings more than a few bells in his head. "Dr. Kamski just arrived at Pembroke with him. Apparently he's going to be joining us once he's settled in."

Connor can only gape like a fish at her for several seconds. Henry Anderson - he's heard that name before. Any doctor worth their salt would know that name. Henry Anderson is a prominent name in the field of bloodwork; in particular his revolutionary methods of blood transfusion is something that most surgeons here use now, including here at Pembroke. To have a physician of such caliber is a great boon to what they're attempting to accomplish.

Crane rolls her eyes. "You are free to indulge in your schoolboy excitement _after_ you finish attending to Mr. Hampton here, Dr. Arkay."

Connor snaps his mouth shut at that and hopes he isn't flushing too much. Last thing he wants now is for Crane’s ever sharp quips if Dr. Anderson is somehow within earshot of their conversation. Quickly, he turns his attention back to Hampton and continues his preliminary inspection of their newest patient. From what he can tell the man is mostly fine—a little anemic, but that’s likely because of the terrible injury between his shoulder and neck. Connor wonders briefly how Hampton could have gotten such a wound, but he supposes it's really none of his business. If anything, an injured man is far easier to deal with than an ill one, given present circumstances.

Still, considering his current state, Connor shouldn’t linger on this for much longer if they do intend to treat him fully; some basic first aid has already been done—Kamski’s handiwork, from what he can tell—so the man should be fine for now. He finishes up his inspection and lets Crane sedate him for the night so as to let Hampton sleep through the pain for tonight. It only takes a moment, and once she’s done Crane straightens back up and wipes off the sweat from her brow; Connor supposes that she must still be recovering from the strain of heaving Hampton all the way here from outside. Hampton may be of smaller stature, but he is still a man, just as Crane is a woman.

"Dr. Anderson should be at the doors at any moment." Crane attempts to rub off the dried blood on her hands while she says that, but the effort ultimately proves futile. A corner of her mouth twitches in displeasure, but she clasps her hands in front of her and begins walking towards the entrance, presumably to greet Anderson and help him get settled in. As much as a part of Connor wishes to follow her and see Pembroke's esteemed new arrival himself, duty calls, and Connor cannot afford a moment's indulgence when there are lives on the line. He checks on Hampton one more time to ensure that the sedative has taken effect before making the rest of his rounds.

The rest of the night after that passes by in relative silence. Once or twice Connor thinks he catches sight of his new colleague while he makes his rounds but Dr. Anderson is mysteriously gone by the time he turns around to try and see him fully. It's a little bit frustrating, but Connor knows that it is his own impatience that is at fault here. Nurse Hawkins chastises him several times for his distractions and eventually chases him off to rest when it becomes clear that he's no longer able to continue working as he is.

Connor is somewhat ashamed at how he’s acting, but the knowledge that he might soon be able to work with the famed Henry Anderson lifts his spirits up. With how deary everything has been due to the epidemic, it is nice to have something… good for once. Even if the circumstances around it could be better.

When Connor returns to his office he finds a pamphlet placed on his desk. It's not hard to imagine what it is in regards to, but Connor picks it up and reads it anyway. Just as expected, it's a hastily scrawled notice in Kamski’s hand to inform the staff about Anderson's joining, and a bulletin that talks more into detail about the blood transfusion techniques that he is well known for.

It is Connor's reading material that night as he lies on his cot, staring at the words so hard they might have burned onto the inside of his skull. They run around in his mind over and over, a litany of key phrases and words he tries to hold onto even as he drifts off.

Henry Anderson, famed surgeon, coming to work at Pembroke…

Connor is certain this must be the start of something good.

* * *

‘Something good’, it seems, begins with being greeted by Dr. Anderson himself when Connor starts on his evening rounds the very next night.

It also becomes very apparent that all the memorizing that Connor's done the previous night pretty much amounts to nothing the moment he actually gets to see Dr. Anderson in the flesh.

"Good evening," he starts, and Connor is glad that he doesn't have anything on his hands right now or that he's currently attending to a patient because he would've made an absolute embarrassment of himself right there and then.

Fortunately, all Connor has to do is keep himself from stuttering as he returns the greeting. "G-Good evening, Dr. Anderson.” Well, even _that_ is somehow a challenge, but honestly, can one blame him? Connor’s seen him before, of course, in photos and such, but none of those photos do a good job of capturing just how… good he looks. What with his bright blue eyes, his ruggedly good looks and how— _big_ —he is in all the ways that Connor likes, though he supposes that might’ve been a byproduct of the other’s time in the war.

 _Probably best not to mention that,_ Connor thinks to himself. Or any of what he’d just thought, really. His patron and Kamski may not mind it so much but the same certainly can’t be said for anyone else.

He brings himself back to the present as he sees Anderson grimacing for some reason. "Just... Henry will be fine," he replies. "Or Hank."

Connor blinks. 'Hank' as a name is... certainly odd, but he's definitely the last person who’s qualified to cast any kind of judgement on people. Still, he'd rather not get too casual with somebody so esteemed.

"Doc—Henry," Connor manages to compromise. That'll be a somewhat comfortable middle ground, he thinks. "It's an honor to make your acquaintance. Your work on blood transfusion is—"

Anderson raises his hand to stop before Connor can babble on. "You don't have to continue."

Connor stops and feels his face go hot as embarrassment rushes forth. He hadn't meant— "I'm sorry if I'm being—"

Anderson cuts him off again. "No, it's not you. I've... just heard it one too many times this night." A strained smile crosses his face. "But I appreciate the sentiment, nonetheless."

Hearing that takes off the sting of embarrassment, but Connor still feels the heat on his face. Internally, he berates himself for not having anticipated something like this. Of _course_ Anderson would be tired of everyone here talking about his work every single time. Connor probably would have reacted the same, too, if he were in the other’s shoes. "I-I hope that you had no issues settling in, at least."

"None at all." The smile on his face turns to something more genuine, now. "Dr. Kamski has been very helpful in that regard."

"That's—that's good." God, he sounds like a five year old schoolboy with how much he's stuttering. Maybe Nurse Crane had something going on with her comment the other night. "It must be, er, stressful, what with having just returned from the war and everything." Connor can't say he's fully certain about this part—but Pembroke is not very large, and word travels around quickly. It helps as much as it hurts, sometimes.

"I... yes." It's only for a moment, but Connor is certain he sees something of a pained look flash across Anderson's face. "Things are... different from how they used to be. But I'm trying my best to get used to it all."

Connor can't begin to guess what kind of difficulties that he is currently experiencing, but Connor hasn't been made to serve as a field surgeon in a war either; he’d been just shy under the age when the enlistings happened. Then again, with how things are now in London, it feels close enough.

"W-Well, if you need any help—" Connor tries to put on his best, most confident smile. "Just let me know. I'll be happy to lend my aid where I can."

"I'll keep it in mind." Anderson inclines his head as he says so. "I'm sure that I'll require it in due time."

Connor almost starts to say how somebody as brilliant as the esteemed Dr. Henry Anderson will be fine, but then remembers how he reacted to the praise from earlier and opts to remain silent.

Anderson seems to take said silence as his cue to leave. "I won’t bother you any longer," he says, already starting to turn around, "No doubt you have a multitude of patients to attend to for the night."

Part of Connor wants Anderson to stick around, but he knows how highly unprofessional that would be. And besides, Anderson most likely has many other things to do than to put up with Connor's 'schoolboy excitement', as Crane puts it.

"Yes," he responds after a brief pause, hoping that he's managed to keep his disappointment under wraps. There'll be other nights, he reminds himself. It's not as if the epidemic is going to magically vanish in one night. Anderson will still be here the next night, and many other nights after that. "Have a good evening, Dr. Anderson."

Anderson's features soften just a touch. "Thank you," he says, and if Connor wasn't enamored before he certainly is now. He knows full well that most of this is just—being starstruck, he supposes. It's not everyday you get to meet your personal heroes, and Anderson has been a huge inspiration for him for a very long time.

 _Focus, Arkay,_ he reminds himself. He won't get anywhere if he lets his excitement get the best of him. He knows he needs to prove himself properly if he ever wants to have any time of day with Anderson.

Said reminder doesn't really help him though even after Anderson takes his leave and the night continues to pass by. He sees Anderson going about and sometimes he can't help but be distracted when he spots him. The photos that he's seen of Anderson prior truly did not do the man justice; he's much bigger than Connor had imagined, and he can imagine all the muscle and strength that has to be currently hidden underneath the tailored coat and finely pressed clothes that he wears in lieu of a doctor's coat. It's a little strange, but it's not as if not wearing a white coat makes Anderson any less of a physician.

And given how often he seems to go out of the hospital, it only makes sense. Part of Connor wonders what exactly it is that Anderson is doing that requires him to go out so often, especially as the nights pass by one after another. He asks the other doctors to see if they know but they're apparently just as clueless as he is.

Ackroyd, in particular, had been especially irritable about Connor's inquiries. "If you have time to ask these inane questions then you have time to do your job, Arkay. It's bad enough that Strickland is fawning over him. Kamski should have never brought him in, if you ask me."

Connor would be insulted, if it wasn't for the fact that Ackroyd seems to think nobody is qualified to work here except himself. Strickland has given him a few choice monikers for it, and none of them are very kind; Connor isn't particularly inclined to use them. As it is, all Connor does is to leave Ackroyd to his own devices and drop the subject entirely. As abrasive as his response has been, he does make a good point—Connor has more important things to do than to try and sate his own curiousness about Anderson.

First, the epidemic. And it's not like Anderson will be gone even after said epidemic has passed. There will be time for everything else, once all of this has passed.

* * *

More nights pass, and it gets increasingly clearer to him that whatever Kamski brought Anderson in for, it's obviously something that goes beyond his duties as a doctor. Anderson is out of the hospital more often than he is in, and when he is in he tends to spend his time either holed up in either his own office or in Kamski's, engaged in some deep conversation that always only takes place behind closed doors. It's hard to deny how much Connor wants to listen in and find out for himself exactly what they're discussing, but Kamski's office is somewhat out of the way for any of his usual rounds (a lot out of the way, if he were to be honest—the patients are all at the ground level and the offices are above), and there's no way for him to just head over there without arousing attention and/or suspicion. The last thing Connor wants is to be caught for something as unprofessional as this.

All he can do is to stay away and stick to the work he's been brought on, though he continues to try to keep a lookout for the flick of coattails that vanish around the corner, or the gleam of silver hair that appears and vanishes just as quickly from the corner of his eyes.

The mystery around Anderson is deep, but Connor is more or less content to let it stay as such. The epidemic is much more important, and there will be time in the future to ponder about Anderson and his many eccentrics.

And for a while, things continue on as they are. Until one night, when things begin to fall apart.


	2. Chapter 2

It begins with the disappearance of Nurse Dorothy Crane.

At first, Connor doesn’t take much notice of said disappearance; Nurse Crane has always been more hands on than most, so he simply assumes that she is tending to other patients elsewhere in the hospital. Sure, they may have developed something of a camaraderie due to working together more often than not, it's not as if she reports to him.

But when four nights pass by without Connor having seen hair nor hide of her that’s when the worry begins to set in. On that night he goes about to ask the rest of the staff if they've seen any sign of her anytime in the last several days, but they all respond in the negative.

Something takes root in the pit of his stomach, then—something cold and sharp, stabbing in all the right places with the pinpoint accuracy of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. There is, of course, the off chance that he might be overthinking this, but it doesn't seem right that she'd simply just—disappear like this without leaving _some_ kind of note, given the sense of responsibility Connor knows that she holds towards the patients under her care.

Connor knows he's told himself not to dwell upon his curiosities, but this, he feels, goes beyond that. Crane is one of their staff members—possibly even one of the best that Pembroke has. He can't help but feel like they should at least try to do something about this whole… situation. They owe her that much, after all that she’s done.

It's those thoughts that bring him up the stairs and down the corridor that leads to Kamski's office, coming to a stop at the doors. Despite all the mental preparation that Connor’s given himself, he still can’t help but hesitate when he stands before them. It’s not as if he’s unwilling to talk to Kamski or anything like that—on the contrary, the administrator of the hospital has always been willing to lend an ear when needed—but the lingering question of _what then_ hangs at the back of his mind. Sure, he can go to Kamski and bring this up to him, but… what happens after that? If something really did happen to Crane, it’s not as if they could spare anybody here to actually do anything—

Connor stops himself from going any further down that train of thought. Dwelling on such negativity won’t get him anywhere. Things may seem bleak now, but he could be entirely wrong. Maybe nothing happened with Crane at all and she simply got caught up with whatever she does over at Whitechapel. She had mentioned to him before that she helps out the impoverished there when she has the time. Maybe that’s what she’s been busy with.

It’s a faint hope, but it is one that Connor can continue to carry inside him as he takes a breath and allows himself to stare at the double oaken doors that lead to Kamski’s office. They look the same as they’ve always been, if perhaps a little more worn down than before; most likely a byproduct of all the comings and goings that this hospital has had since the start of this epidemic.

He starts to reach out in order to knock at the door and let Kamski know of his intention to come in, but before he does so he hears the familiar murmuring of voices from the other side. It happens often enough by now that Connor doesn't need to guess who it is—Anderson and Kamski, once again. If anything it feels these not so subtle hidden meetings between the two have only increased in count in the last few days. Potentially since Nurse Crane's disappearance.

It's a passing thought at first, but now that it's occurred in his mind something inside of Connor tenses up as a horrible idea comes to him. The last thing he wants to do is to suspect either Kamski or Anderson (especially Anderson) to have any part in whatever happened to Crane, but—

His thoughts get cut short when the murmuring voices start to increase in volume. Nothing that could be constituted as shouting, but in all the time that Anderson has been here thus far Connor has never heard him raise his voice in the way that he is doing right now. It's loud enough that Connor can wear the words even through the door. Not _all_ the words, exactly, but enough of them to get his attention—especially when a familiar name is dropped. "...this ...need to... Crane..."

Something inside of Connor freezes up at that moment when he hears it. Crane. Connor is quite certain he's heard that right. If her name had been said then it has to mean that whatever conversation that's going on in there right now has to involve her in some fashion. 

A part of him wants to do nothing more than to just barge into the room right there and then and get some answers, but considering the fact that Kamski has been silent about this—despite clearly being aware that something is going on—Connor has doubts about getting said answers. Doubly so when it's obvious that whatever is going on is something private between him and Anderson.

Connor takes a moment to consider the alternatives—or rather, a singular alternative. If he can't go up and ask, then really, that just leaves him with one other course of action. He’s never been one to approve of eavesdropping, but at this moment in time the need for an answer is far more important. If by chance Crane is truly in some sort of danger and they're trying to keep it hush, then that's something that Connor wants to know. Keeping secrets isn't going to help anyone, least of all the person who’s at the very center of said secret.

Decision made, Connor quickly goes ahead to put it into action. He creeps as close to the doors as he can, taking care to keep his footsteps light. The voices get clearer as he gets closer, and Connor eventually ends up stopping barely a step away, staying still when he hears Anderson speaking up once more, every word that he says now coming through clearly to Connor. "We don't need to give the specifics, Kamski. But they need to know what happened."

"I don't see why we should make such a fuss about it." Kamski's voice, usually genial and friendly in the few times he's spoken to him, now carries an iciness to it that sends a chill down Connor's spine. “None of the staff has asked. Everyone's far too busy with the epidemic to be concerned with a fellow staff member.”

"They _are_ asking," comes the returning hiss from Anderson, who sounds stressed beyond belief. "They just haven't come around to ask you yet. It's only a matter of time."

"Then I can handle it when it happens.” The dismissiveness in Kamski’s voice is all too plain—yet another reason for the chill that Connor had felt through his body. “That should settle it then, no?"

Anderson makes a strangled, choking sound. "You could just send a bloody notice now to make it easier."

"If I do that, then the patients will catch wind of this."

"You say as if they haven't."

Connor blinks at that response, somewhat taken aback. Considering how Anderson tends to be more out of the hospital rather than in, he definitely didn't expect to hear something like that from him. It's a pleasant sort of surprise to know that despite his busy schedule (or whatever it is that he does outside of Pembroke) Anderson hasn't forgotten his work here. Not that Connor would have expected anything less from him, but still. It's still good to know that he isn't as out of the loop as Connor suspected otherwise. Then again, considering the subject of the current conversation...

He purses his lips and shelves that thought for later as Anderson’s voice comes through again. "Christ, Kamski, just because they're sick doesn't mean they're stupid. Of course they're going to notice when one of the nurses suddenly vanishes."

A scoff from Kamski, this time. "I never said anything along those lines, Anderson."

"You didn't have to." Even through the door Connor can hear the exasperated eyeroll. "Just... let the staff know, alright?" Anderson's voice slips into something a little quieter, here. One could almost call it regretful. "Everyone here at least deserves that much."

A brief pause—and then, a sigh. "Very well. I'll have the notice up by tomorrow night."

This time it's Anderson who sighs. "...thank you." A shuffle, followed by several footsteps. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

The footsteps resume, and Connor quickly realizes that said footsteps are getting louder because Anderson is approaching the door that he’s on the other side of. That isn't good. Connor suppresses the squeak he almost lets out in his panic and hastily backs away, putting as much space as he can from the door so it doesn't become immediately obvious that he'd been standing outside eavesdropping. He gets about as far two doors down from where he’d been when the doors of Kamski's office open up and Anderson steps out into the corridor.

For a moment Connor wonders if Anderson is returning to his own office (which is at the end of the hallway and so would not cross Connor's path at all), but it seems like that is not the case tonight. Anderson turns, facing the way that Connor is standing and begins walking in his direction. Connor feels his heart leap to his chest when he realizes that this is happening, eyes widening as he internally panics on what to do. His mind whirls over a myriad of thoughts; did Anderson catch him eavesdropping somehow? Or did Kamski tell him to talk to him about something that he wasn't privy to prior to the conversation that Connor had caught? Sure, maybe it is a tendency of his to jump to the worst case scenarios but given the dark, stormy look that Anderson currently bears makes Connor feels like he can be forgiven for coming to these conclusions.

Whatever the case, there’s nothing else he can do but face whatever happens next head on. Connor holds his breath as Anderson gets closer to him, feeling very much like a deer trying to stay silent in the presence of a dangerous predator. He'd never seen Anderson like this before and it is... concerning. He'd only caught the tail end of the entire conversation, so Connor can only wonder what they had been talking about earlier.

Well, he supposes there is one way to find out, but that'll have to wait until Anderson isn't around so that the other won’t see him enter the office.

Connor steps aside when Anderson gets close enough, not wanting to get in his way. He does, however, squeak out a quiet 'good evening' when he knows that he's within earshot, fully not expecting any kind of response.

So it's a bit of a surprise when Anderson actually does stop. He pauses in his tracks and turns to face Connor, the darkness on his face momentarily dissipating as he says, "The same to you, Dr. Arkay.” Though his voice is mostly neutral, Connor can definitely sense a strained quality to it, and that’s something he can at least relate to. Although Anderson's work takes him out of the hospital more than him actually being within it Connor has no doubt about how busy he must be. Kamski, for all of his eccentrics, wouldn't have hired somebody who wasn’t going to do their share of the work.

Connor's still pointedly aware of Anderson's sour mood, though, so he reminds himself to keep his own conversation light as he responds. "Long night?"

Anderson huffs and turns away. "Very," he says, voice curt. "But I suppose it's no different from every other night." A tinge of bitterness creeps into his voice then, and Connor feels something inside of him twist when he hears that. Yes, there might be something going on between him and Kamski, but clearly whatever is going on with Anderson seems to extend beyond that. Connor knows he's really in no place to ask, but still—

"All of us work hard to keep the epidemic in check," he starts, making sure to choose his words carefully. The last thing he wants is to somehow earn any part of Anderson’s barely hidden ire. "But our own health is important too. We can't go about helping others if we were to fall ill ourselves."

Anderson blinks once, seemingly taken aback by what Connor just said, and once it does sink into him he lets out a harsh bark of laughter, the cynicism within it running deep. "I don't require rest, if that's what you're implying, Dr, Arkay."

Connor feels his cheeks heating up just a little, but he stays resolute despite his blunder. He shakes his head, attempting to elaborate and try to make up for his earlier words. "You've always been at the peak of physical health, Dr. Anderson—Henry." It's a little envious, really, how Anderson never seems to run himself ragged despite how much he tends to run about. Connor certainly wishes he could possess that kind of seemingly superhuman fortitude. "I'm talking about… the inside. An illness of the mind, if you desire to call that. Even if our bodies are fine, our minds require rest too."

Connor doesn't know exactly what he's done, but it's clear that he's hit a nerve when he sees the darkness rushing back to Anderson's face. He quickly turns his head away before Connor can see it all, but the hint of what he _can_ see is enough for him to know that he should pull back and make amends before it gets any worse. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply that—" Imply what, exactly, Connor has no way of knowing, but at this point it probably doesn't matter.

Anderson fully turns away from him this time. "No... it's alright," his voice is strangely soft despite what Connor had just seen. Or perhaps ‘regretful’ is the better description to use here. "I appreciate your concern. Thank you, Dr. Arkay."

Connor would return the sentiment, but then Anderson resumes moving, thus swiftly ending their conversation there. The sudden dismissal leaves Connor rather flabbergasted, but he quickly recomposes himself before Anderson can get too far. Or at the very least, he tries to.

"W-Wait!" Connor winces when he realizes that his voice had come out louder than he'd expected it to, but it's a bit too late to regret that. He steps forward, praying for his legs to keep him up because it definitely feels like they’re liable to give in at any moment from his nervousness alone.

Anderson pauses with one foot at the top step of the stairs. He takes a step backwards and turns back to Connor, facing him fully once more and looking at him with those cool, icy blue eyes of his. "Is there something else you wish to inform me about?"

"I, er." Connor falters, the burst of courage he'd felt vanishing as quickly as it came. "I just, um."

Anderson raises an eyebrow at him. His expression doesn't change, but Connor can sense his rising impatience from reading his body language alone, and being aware of that doesn't really help the situation. Connor makes a few more aborted attempts at speaking, getting more panicked each time he fails. God, he's a mess. He really shouldn't have even tried this in the first place.

The longer Anderson waits for him the more panicked Connor gets, and eventually it goes back around which causes him babble out his next words in a rush. "Youcantalktomeifyouwantto."

Anderson blinks, understandably confused. "I beg your pardon?"

Connor flushes, embarrassment flooding him in waves. Crane's remark about his schoolboy excitement floats back to him at this point, and it dampens the mood a little. _Waste nothing, not even time_ is something she'd told him once, and Connor supposes that it applies here just as much as it does to their work. The more he blathers and tries to push on, the worse he'll get. What he needs to do is to pull himself back.

With that in mind Connor takes a second to recompose himself. He takes a breath, holding it in for several seconds before letting it out. The tension inside of him eases as he exhales, and he definitely feels a lot better now compared to how he'd been just moments prior. It's good enough that he feels some of his earlier confidence returning, too, enough for him to speak up again. "If you require a listening ear, I would be glad to provide it."

Anderson blinks again, this time looking rather surprised by the offer. "You—" he begins, but Connor presses on before he can interrupt, refusing to let his own uncertainty get the better of him.

Be it either due to boldness or foolishness, Connor somehow manages to say what he wants to without messing it up. "Perhaps this may be forward for me, but... I want to help you, as much as I can. All of us are out here doing our best to help London during this epidemic. If being able to share your burden can aid you, then it is the least I can do." He falls silent after those words, though he keeps his gaze on Anderson, who continues to remain surprised. Connor wonders if he's—overstepped his bounds here, or something, which is definitely not his intention. It's not as if he can claim to _know_ Anderson even though they're now acquainted after a fashion, or that Connor's read all about his work prior to any of this.

The more Connor thinks about it the more it seems like he should just apologize if he did actually cross some boundaries that he hadn't been aware of. He opens his mouth, ready to do just that, but before he can start now it's his turn to get cut off by Anderson.

"You—" he begins again, just like before, only to stop. He grimaces at his own hesitation, and it occurs to Connor now that this is the first time he's seen Anderson this... uncertain. It's a very strange turn of events, but it's not... unwelcome. In a way, it's almost refreshing to see that Anderson is just as unsure about things, too. It certainly helps make Connor feel less alone, at the very least.

It also helps him find the courage to speak again. "You don't need to answer me now or anything. I just... wanted to do so, really. It's a standing offer."

"I..." Anderson takes a breath of his own this time, letting it out as another sigh. "Perhaps. It would be nice to be able to just... talk, for once." There's a weariness to that last bit that has Connor curious. It's not hard to tell that there's a story behind there—and most likely a recent one, too, if he had to guess. He can't imagine what it might be, but he doubts nothing will change even if he is aware. 

"Well," he starts, with a smile that he hopes is encouraging. "Talking, I've found, tends to help when you least expect it. Listening, too. I've been told that I'm a very good listener."

Anderson snorts. "I think I'm inclined to agree, after all your flustering earlier." 

Connor feels his cheeks heat in response to that. He can't really deny it, after what happened. "I apologize."

"It's alright." Anderson flashes him a small smile after those words, and that alone is... reassuring. As well as somewhat breathtaking, in his opinion. But Connor isn't going to linger on that (for now). Mostly because of what he says next. "But I appreciate the offer. I just might take you up on that in the near future."

Something in Connor lights up all at once when he hears that, and there's no way to suppress the delighted smile that crosses his face. "I-I'm humbled that you are willing to accept my offer," he begins, though this time he makes sure to not let himself get too far ahead. "But please, don't feel like you need to just because I offered. I know you must have a lot on your plate."

"Having a lot on my plate is one of the reasons why I feel like I should accept this offer." The words are dry but Connor sees the faintest hint of mirth on Anderson's face—and such a sight is certainly… nice. "I truly do appreciate it. It's… assuring to see that my presence here doesn't trouble all the staff."

Connor wants to say something along the lines of _you're of no trouble at all_ and for a moment wonders who could have had such an opinion, but quickly recalls the likes of Ackroyd and Hawkins. Connor had been far from the only one who'd noticed Anderson's constant activity in and out of Pembroke. While Connor himself wants to believe that whatever Anderson is doing outside is benefiting the hospital, he can see why others might not share his opinion. 

It's times like these where he is a little disheartened to remember despite their united goal to stand up against the epidemic, there is little common ground between them all. Whenever all of this is over, they will inevitably go on their separate ways. Connor would never want to hold anybody back, of course, but—he can't deny that he'll be a little sad when that time comes, if only because this is the first time where Connor had felt like he actually did belong somewhere, even if it's for something as materialistic as a common goal. 

Still, that's something that probably won't happen for a while yet. The epidemic still holds strong, and all of them are doing their part to fight against it. He just wishes that the rest of the staff can see that much.

"The others may have their reservations," Connor admits, "but I personally don't see a point in being suspicious of our own colleagues. We are all in this together, as London's last bastion against this epidemic. If we can't even trust one another, then how are we to remain united when the going gets tough?"

Anderson's eyes widen ever so slightly in surprise, which causes Connor to quickly silence himself before he can babble any further. He definitely hadn't meant to spew everything out like that, but his own zeal had gotten the better of him. It's a little embarrassing, really. He should have more self-control than this.

As much as he knows that he should _stay_ quiet, Connor can't exactly let himself remain silent without first giving some form of apology. "Sorry, I didn't mean to, er, go on. You probably didn't need to hear any of that."

Connor had expected some kind of dismissal, or perhaps some kind of false reassurance that's been done to him one too many times in the past, but instead finds himself being the one surprised now when Anderson cracks a smile at him and says, "No, it's quite alright. I actually find it rather refreshing to hear something like this for once."

Connor feels a little stunned over that response. It really shouldn't mean that much, but given that it came from Henry Anderson, a physician whose works he'd admired for quite a while already—even before any of this—makes the words hold so much more weight to them that few others can compare to in his memory.

"I, erm, I—" God, he's becoming a spluttering mess again. As if he already didn't have enough of that earlier. Embarrassment starts to rise up within him again, which gets decisively worse when Anderson speaks up. "Take your time and calm down. No need to rush everything out like an excited little schoolboy."

The phrase _excited little schoolboy_ does not, in any way, help Connor's predicament whatsoever. His face heats up even more, and the strength of his embarrassment is so great at this point that it's enough to make him try and argue back. "I'm not a—"

"Schoolboy? I certainly hope not." Anderson chuckles low in his throat, and Connor finds himself flushing for a similar, yet entirely different reason. One he hasn't really wanted to look into for a multitude of other reasons, even if he knows that both Kamski and his patron has no qualms about it, which he knows is his fortune in this day and age.

"Well," is what he manages out after several moments taken to recompose himself. "I will assure you that I am not. Kamski wouldn't have asked me to work here otherwise."

Connor feels the mood shift the moment Kamski's name leaves his lips. The light-hearted banter that'd been slowly building between them crumbles away as quickly as the way the expression on Anderson's face shutters back into the darkness that he'd seen earlier. Even the most oblivious person would be able to realize at this point that they've crossed some lines—Connor doubly so.

All the good natured feelings that Connor had been experiencing quickly shrivel away, leaving something of a void inside of him that threatens to expand into that cold, dreadful feeling from before. Quickly, he attempts to rectify his mistake. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Anderson turns away before Connor can finish his apologies. "No, you didn't do anything wrong." His voice is quiet, again, and full of something that Connor can only describe as regret. "Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. But I must really be going now. Have a good night, doctor."

"I—wait—" Connor tries to call out to him again, but this time it doesn't work. Anderson pointedly ignores that his name is being called as he descends down the rest of the stairs. Connor stumbles forward and tries to go down the stairs himself, but before he can even set foot on the topmost stair Anderson has already stepped past the doors, leaving Connor unable to do nothing else but watch his back as Anderson vanishes into London’s thick midnight fog.

Connor doesn't know how long he stays there, standing, but eventually he pulls himself back together and finally brings himself over to Kamski's office.

* * *

Though Connor has been working at Pembroke for a fair bit by this point, he can count the number of times that he's actually been in Kamski's office on one hand. 

Not that something like that is strange in anyway; most of the staff don't really traverse up beyond the first floor. For the most part the only real rooms that exist here are the doctor's offices—which, of course, includes Connor's, which is a pretty novel thing for him, since he hasn’t really ever had that kind of privilege before. Unfortunately, however, he doesn't get to use it as much as he would’ve liked; more often than not the only time he _is_ here is for him to use the provided cot to rest in between his shifts.

Kamski, on the other hand, is quite the opposite—while he does have his share of patients, he also has the entire hospital to take care of, which means that he’s in his office more often than most.

Of course, Connor doesn't doubt that running a hospital such as Pembroke during a crisis like this has to be hard, but privately he can't help but think that it would be nice if he actually showed his face a bit more often around the patients. Maybe then he'd be less of an enigma and wouldn't be subjected to so much questioning from the rest of the staff. If anything, they've been even more chatty about him ever since he brought Anderson onboard, and the fact that they have a not-so-secret meeting every other night behind closed doors only further fuels the flames, as it were. The unsubtle whispers about Anderson having been tasked to deal with the blackmail rumor that'd been floating about doesn’t make things any better, either. 

There are a lot of things going on with Anderson since the very first night he arrived, if Connor has to be honest, but at the same time it’s not as if he’s in any position to make any kind of judgement. And while it’s true that he doesn't know the full picture of what's going on between Kamski and Anderson, he wants to believe that it's nothing shady. For all he knows it might simply be nothing more than a discussion between two esteemed intellectuals; Kamski is, after all, a prominent doctor in his own fields, despite what his eccentrics might suggest otherwise.

At the same time, Connor does wish that those same eccentrics didn't make Kamski feel so... distant. For all of his light hearted banter and easy going attitude towards the staff and the patients, there's always been something about him that feels incredibly disingenuous. Connor feels a little guilty to have such opinions about the man who more or less helped to give him a place in society in spite of how he is—not to mention that the very act of him opening Pembroke on the front lines of the epidemic means that he does care, but sometimes it's just so hard to see.

These are all the thoughts that run around in Connor's head as he knocks on the open doors of Kamski's office to get his attention. "Dr. Kamski? It's me, Connor."

A brief second passes before he gets a response. "Please, come in."

Connor steps into the office. It looks just about the same as the last time he'd been inside here—not that he can be entirely certain, since said 'last time' was quite a while ago. Still, it's not so long that he wouldn't notice if Kamski decided to indulge in some redecoration for some reason or another. Connor somehow wouldn't find himself terribly surprised if he did. But as far as he can tell, nothing much has changed—save perhaps for a noticeable increase of paperwork that he can see scattered about on Kamski's desk. Probably something related to the influx of patients they'd been getting recently. As well as having Anderson on board.

The thought of Anderson sobers Connor a little and he reins in his curiosity. All these things that he's pondering about now can be done later; right now he's here to get his needed answers from Kamski.

"Dr. Arkay. Always a pleasure to see you." Kamski stands up from his desk and goes around it, approaching Connor with his arms open wide. Connor pointedly steps back when Kamski gets a little too close for comfort. It's not like he doesn't appreciate physical gestures of affection and appreciation, but Connor would rather have the lines between them remain distinct. Double so since Kamski is acquainted with his patron.

Kamski, at least, quickly gets the hint. He gives Connor something of an apologetic look and drops his arms, taking one step back. "No greetings then," he says, and at least he sounds good natured about it. Connor lets out an internal sigh of relief. His boundaries are important, but he also has no desire to incur the irritation—or worse, wrath—of somebody who is, for all intents and purposes, his current employer and something of a benefactor.

He reminds himself of that, too, as Kamski clasps his hands together and asks, "So, what can I do for you tonight, Dr. Arkay?"

Connor gives himself a second to prepare himself for the question he's come all the way up here to ask. "I'd like to ask about Nurse Crane. She hasn't reported to work for the last few nights, and a lot of the staff have been getting restless about her abrupt silence." He'd thought about going down to Whitechapel to ask the locals around there about her, but the work here has made it impossible for him to leave for even a single afternoon. He would have asked Anderson for help, given his constant excursions, but after what he'd overheard… well. He doesn't want to distrust anybody, least of all Anderson, but right now Connor would rather try to get all the facts himself, without any kind of middleman to potentially muddle things up.

For a moment Connor worries if Kamski is going to stay mum, but he's quickly proven otherwise. "She has resigned from her post here as of last night. She no longer works at Pembroke, hence why she is no longer at the premises."

Well, that is certainly news that Connor had not been expecting in the slightest. "She... resigned?" he echoes, trying to make sense of it all. In all the time she'd been here Connor had never so much as heard her make any mention of an intention to leave her post. If anything Crane had been one of the most diligent and responsible nurses in Pembroke. She wouldn't have left so abruptly when there were still numerous patients under her care. It's just not like her to abandon her work without warning. That simply doesn’t make sense.

Kamski lets out a sigh. "I know," he starts, sounding just as about as tired as Connor is confused. "It really is a shame to lose somebody of her caliber. But she made her choice to leave, and I am not one to stop people if they choose to follow a different calling."

Connor's mind continues to whirl around this sudden news. At least he has an answer, as shocking as it is. Still, something about it continues to bug him. "I..." he starts, then stops himself before he can continue, because he'd been about to say _then why was Anderson so agitated about it_ and that would have not ended well. If Kamski knew that he'd been eavesdropping, he would be finished.

Quickly, he thinks of another way to ask his question without it coming off as suspicious. "I didn't see her coming by the hospital to give notice." Even if he'd been busy with his patients, it'd be hard to miss somebody stepping through the wide, open doors of the hospital.

Kamski tilts his head at the response, green eyes locked right onto Connor. From the way he’s staring Connor wonders, for one fearful moment, if he hasn't been as subtle as he hoped to be. Perhaps he should try to think of some sort of excuse now should the need for it arise in the next couple of minutes—

"That's because she didn't come by," Kamski finally responds, and Connor blinks at what he's heard. But before he recovers enough to ask Kamski about that he continues on to explain just that. "Anderson went by her place to pick up her notice of departure. That's why he was here in my office, to deliver it to me."

It's a struggle for Connor to keep his expression neutral when a part of him wants to frown at everything that Kamski's just said, while the other part of him screams about his discomfort over Kamski's way of response. He could be overthinking this, but Kamski explicitly saying _why_ Anderson was apparently in his office doesn't exactly bode well for Connor. It might be his subtle way of letting him know that he'd been caught—but if that's the case, then why not just tell him outright? It's not as if there's anything he's saying right now is particularly secretive... unless it is.

Connor stops himself before his mind can go down that particular rabbit hole. His patron's warnings about his overzealous curiosity comes back to him. Some things, no matter how intriguing or mysterious they seem, are at times best left untouched—or at the very least put aside until a better, more appropriate time. This certainly feels like one of those times. Not to say that Connor likes the idea of leaving this be; he simply knows better than to try and push his luck right now. Not when there are other questions he can ask—and other things that he can say. "Last I checked, Dr. Anderson didn't come here to work as a mailman." 

Kamski lets out a snort. "Of course not," he returns, sounding surprisingly offended. "I knew he was heading to that area tonight, so I simply asked him to do it as a favor."

Well, that... that makes sense, he supposes. Connor feels a little bit embarrassed now for assuming as much as he did. Of course, there's still the question of _why_ Anderson had gone to an area like Whitechapel, but he supposes it's not too far fetched to assume he'd be there on official business from Pembroke. The patients here had been mentioning something along the lines of some herbalist there or other. Perhaps that's what Anderson had gone there for.

The reasons sound shaky, even in Connor's own mind, but for now he's content to let sleeping dogs lie on that particular mystery. Kamski may be eccentric, but Connor knows that he is genuine in helping London fight against the epidemic. Connor wouldn't be here otherwise if he wasn't. 

He shakes his head to clear his mind of the various thoughts that continue to run around in there. His suspicions are still present, but at this point there's no benefit in giving them credit. Times as they are now are different from the norms he'd been once used to, given their current plight. It'd be entirely unfair to judge things now with the standards that he has long since come to realize are impossible to uphold during his tenure at Pembroke. Everyone has had to do something they didn't think they'd been doing at one point or another, including Connor.

Connor knows that he should just move on now before he burns a hole in his own mind trying to nitpick this whole thing apart. The answer he's gotten is far from satisfactory, but he's willing to look the other way if it means Kamski will do the same in return.

"I suppose as long as Dr. Anderson is fine with doing such menial tasks," Connor says after a notable pause. It's an admission to himself as much as it is a reminder; Connor might want to dig into this whole mystery that he seems to have stumbled onto, but in the end he's nothing more than a bystander in this situation. If Anderson is apparently fine with running errands for Kamski, then who is he to say otherwise?

"There is no one among the staff here who I would trust more than him." Connor finds himself blinking once more, having not expected to hear such an admission from Kamski. Connor looks over to him, only to see that Kamski has turned around and put his back to him. "It is a shame that greatness has to be marked with equal tragedy."

Connor feels his insides freeze upon those words. "What?" He doesn’t want to assume anything from a remark like that, but with such strong wording Connor can certainly make a few guesses as to what these ‘tragedies’ could be about.

He watches Kamski as the man turns back in order to pick up the decorative skull from his desk, bringing it up to his own gaze as if to examine it. He continues to keep his gaze away from Connor when he speaks next. "His wife died shortly after he returned from the front. Her funeral is tonight."

The news hits Connor quite unexpectedly, almost like a punch to the throat. He hadn't been aware that Anderson was a married man—though he really shouldn't have been surprised.

But that's something for him to dwell about later. Right now all Connor can feel is an ache in his chest as he recalls the darkness that'd been on Anderson's face during their conversation earlier. Now it makes sense why he had been like that—Connor knows what it is like to attend an event that only reminds you of the people that you have lost. The fact that it is his wife only makes it worse.

Connor presses a hand to his own chest as the ache he feels continues to throb, like a phantom wound that no salve can heal. "Did she get caught by the epidemic?"

Kamski is quiet for several moments. "I do not know," he eventually says, voice soft. "But it does not matter. A death, even not by the epidemic, is still a death nonetheless, and another lost life to mourn over."

Connor can't deny the weight and truth of those words. The epidemic remains on the forefront of his mind, but its moments like these where he gets a grim reminder of how truly fragile humans are. As deadly as it is the illness is not the only thing that can claim their lives. It's a sobering thought, and one that reminds him why he's doing what he's doing now. Why he agreed to come down to work at Pembroke when he could have remained in the relative safety of the West End. Every human life is precious, and Connor wants to do everything in his power to save as many lives as he can before the epidemic can claim them. 

With that in mind, Connor supposes its best if he gets back to work now. He spent more time than he'd expected this night talking to both Anderson and Kamski. His curiosity over the mysteries is something he can attend to in his own time, after the epidemic has been dealt with.

"I'll get back to my work now," he informs Kamski, already turning to face the door. "Thank you for taking the time to speak with me."

"The pleasure has been mine, Dr. Arkay," Kamski responds in kind as Connor makes his way out of the office. "Please do send my regards to your patron the next time you see her."

Connor is pretty certain that he doesn't have to, but he'll keep it in mind. He takes his leave from Kamski's office and heads back downstairs to resume his duties for the night. There are patients who need saving and illnesses to cure, and none of those are going to happen if he doesn't do his job. Mysteries can come later, after these lives are saved.


	3. Chapter 3

Kamski releases the circular about Crane's resignation from her post the very next night. Unsurprisingly, not many of the staff take well to the news. Hawkins, in particular, had been especially vocal about their diminishing numbers while the number of sick in their care steadily rises. 

"If things continue as they are," he overheard her one night as she spoke to Milton, the ambulance, "it'll be a matter of time before Pembroke drives itself to the ground. We're all at our wits' end."

Connor can't deny the truth in her words. With Crane's departure the amount of work that Connor needs to do has increased rather exponentially, since her former workload is now distributed among the remaining staff. Now Connor has several more patients that he has to attend to in every shift, and even he has to admit his growing exhaustion. Doubly so when one of the patients he's taking over is one Harriet Jones—a woman whose temper is as terrible as the strange affliction that confines her to one of the few isolated wards that Pembroke can provide. Crane had been the only one back then who could handle her barbed words and pointed insults without so much as batting an eyelid. Now that she's gone, no other nurse will take her. Why Kamski thought that _Connor_ of all people would be suitable to deal with her, then, is something beyond his understanding.

Then again, he thinks to himself one night as he steps into Harriet's room and sees the other person who has already made themselves welcome in here, it could always be worse.

"You are hurting, Harriet. I know a friend who can help you ease the pain you bear."

"If even Dr. Kamski can't fix me, how can some crock-pot in your shelter do any better?"

Connor bites down on a sigh. "Mr Hampton, I've already told you not to come in here and bother Mrs Jones." He wonders, briefly, if Crane had to deal with this too when she was working here. From their mannerisms and speech during the first time Connor had walked in to see them together it felt like the two of them had already been acquainted with each other for a while, but it's hard to be certain. Hampton is, after all, a rather affable man. Perhaps it is a trait that's shared by all men of the cloth. Connor wishes that he'd be just as affable about actually following his orders of staying in bed instead of going about the premises and constantly bothering Jones.

Hampton turns to look at him as Connor makes his way over to the other side of Jones' bed. "My apologies, doctor," he says; Connor notes that despite the words he doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "It was not my intention to disregard your advice. But the Lord has granted me newfound understanding in regards to Harriet's condition, and I felt it prudent to share with her."

Harriet lets out a disdainful snort from where she lies in bed. "Fat lot that does for me," she says, and Connor has heard her enough times now to know when she’s loaded up her words like bullets in a pistol, spitting them out to shoot right where it hurts like what she’s doing right now. "I know what they call you, Hampton—the Sad Saint of the East End. I won't be surprised if this 'friend' of yours is a whore like all the other nurses here in this hellhole."

Connor struggles to not let any of his slowly growing irritation show on his face. He wants to be impartial, but moments like these he can't help but wonder if Jones' ever realizes the reason why nobody is particularly enthused to attend to her, or even remain in her general vicinity. He's well aware of how cranky patients can get, but more often than not he feels that Harriet has gone straight past cantankerous and right into poisonous. 

"Please don't insult the staff who are trying to help you, Mrs Jones," he says, even though at this point Connor is well aware that his words are more or less falling onto deaf ears. It's the principle of the matter that’s important here. "Everyone here is simply doing their best to lend their aid to fight against the epidemic.”

Harriet scoffs at his words. "Lending their aid?" The venom in her voice is all but audible this time around. "You, perhaps. The rest? Nothing but snakes, waiting to squeeze us dry."

In his earlier days of working here Connor would have attempted to argue back, but by this point he's far too tired and worn out to do such a thing, especially when he knows that this is a battle he cannot win. All he wants now is to get this over with as quickly as possible so that he no longer needs to withstand the constant stream of insults being hurled in his general direction.

Holding back another sigh, Connor brings out his clipboard and pen, ready to take down whatever notes that he deems necessary for this particular nightly check up. "How are you feeling this evening, Mrs Jones?"

"Terrible," comes the immediate—and wholly expected—response. "The aches are worse than ever, and my skin feels like it's crawling with ants and fleas. When will Dr. Kamski come by again?"

"As soon as he can." Connor hasn't really had the desire to go back up to Kamski’s office since that night, but he supposes he can't avoid it forever. He makes a note to inform Kamski about this when he has the time. It is a little strange that Kamski is apparently neglecting what is essentially Pembroke's longest staying patient, but Crane's sudden resignation has undoubtedly left a void in the hospital. The work she did here has been more than substantial. Connor wouldn't be surprised if Kamski was actually struggling right now to find a way to fill in the gap that she left behind.

(Privately, Connor feels just the tiniest bit of vindication about that. If Kamski was so willing to lose somebody as capable as Crane, then he’ll just have to suffer the consequences of his decision.)

Harriet makes a sound of dissatisfaction. "Whores and liars, all of you,” she grouses out, clearly displeased with Connor’s response. “Especially that new one who's been skulking about in the shadows. As if he thinks he can hide with that great bulk of his."

It doesn't take much for Connor to figure out who Harriet is talking about. "Did you mean Dr. Anderson?" He somehow finds himself surprised that Anderson has spoken to her before. Harriet is, after all, one of Kamski's personal patients, and more than his eccentricity, the administrator is well known for the incredible level of secrecy in which he conducts his work. Everyone knows that he does his job but none has ever been able to know the _how_. 

In a more peaceful time it'd be a mystery that Connor would try to figure out for himself, but right now all that matters is that everyone is doing their job. He hums and makes a brief note about Anderson's visit—perhaps Kamski asked him to take a look, what with the numerous unknowns in that surround Harriet's condition. 

"Anderson..." Harriet trails off for a second, probably to recall her own memory, and her face lights up once it comes back to her. "Yes, that was him. He came in here like a bloodhound sniffing around for clues."

Connor frowns at that. Clues? About what? "What manner of clues was he searching for?"

The question earns him a scoff from Harriet. "You're as blind as a bat if you can't see this place for the den of depravity that it really is," she snaps out. "Everyone here says they're doing this for the good of the people, but I know better. It was only a matter of time before things like blackmail happen around here."

Connor tenses up. He'd heard the rumors floating about, but he never thought... "Blackmail?"

Hampton lets out a sad sigh from where he stands across Harriet's bed. "Somebody here has apparently been blackmailing one of the benefactors of the hospital." He shakes his head. "It is a travesty that something like this has to happen within the halls of this sacred healing space."

Connor doesn't quite register whatever Hampton says after the first part of his response because his mind has already latched onto the words and is now meticulously picking them apart. It may have just been a coincidence that Crane left while these rumors of blackmail were afoot—but at the same time he can’t deny how perfect the timing of these seemingly separate things are. He doesn't want to assume, but if he lines those facts together...

The moment Connor draws the conclusion in his mind he feels as if the ground has shaken itself loose beneath his feet. Part of him wants to march up to Kamski's office right now and demand answers, but from previous experience he knows that doing that won't get him anywhere. So if he can’t do that, then it leaves him with one other option. An option that Connor does not want to consider, but he knows he has to do it if he really wants the truth of this whole thing.

Harriet makes another disgruntled sound. "Are you done with your questions, doctor? I'm tired and I want to rest now."

"Ah—yes," Connor just barely manages to keep himself from fumbling over his words. He shakes his head, clearing off his thoughts for the moment; he will come back to them later when he gets a reprieve from his duties. "That will be all. I'll drop by again later if I have to."

"It will be best if you don't," Hampton cautions him. "Mrs Jones very much prefers her rest."

"As do we all," Connor can't help but mutter under his breath in return. Rest would be very nice, but unfortunately the epidemic does not stop for anyone, least of all him.

* * *

With Harriet settled—at least for tonight—Connor goes about on the rest of his rounds, checking on the other patients under his care. From what he can see none of their conditions are deteriorating—although in the same instance they haven't been improving either. It's frustrating, but all Connor can do is maintain his vigil and hope that the status quo can change for the better sooner rather than later.

Throughout the night Connor also keeps an eye out for Anderson, hoping to catch the other man and talk to him. Or at least arrange for a time where they can talk because Connor isn't going to let Anderson get out of this. He's not going to lie—the thought of having to confront Anderson is pretty terrifying. Connor knows that he's not going to have a chance if things escalate, but he's determined not to let the answers slip by him as they did before. 

Maybe he is looking too much into it all—but the more he thinks about it, the more apparent it is that Anderson must have had something to do with Crane's abrupt resignation. It just doesn't make sense for her to simply just... up and leave so suddenly, without reason or warning. In all the time he's known her she has never been the sort to abandon her duty to helping the sick—she may be sterner than most, but her desire to help has always been genuine. If something did truly happen to her, then it should at the very least be known. It doesn't even have to be him. It just needs to be somebody who would be willing to let the truth be known instead of keeping it hidden in the dark.

Connor had originally thought that Anderson wouldn’t be that kind of person, but he supposes he should have known better. The taste of disappointment is bitter in his throat, but that's pretty much been the story of his life. Constantly brought up to hope, only to watch said hope get crushed and grounded to dust.

A deluge of memories swell up from the depths of his mind then, reminding him of that very fact, but Connor quickly squashes them down before they can take root. This isn't the time and place for such things; Pembroke had been his chance for a new start, and he won't accomplish that if he keeps letting the specters of his past haunt him. 

Reminding himself of all of that doesn't do much to quell the anxiety that bubbles within him as the rest of the night passes by. It causes him to fumble more than once—though luckily none of the other staff are around to catch his mistakes. It still makes him guilty, though, and after the fifth time it happens Connor is forced to admit to himself that he should take a short break to calm his own nerves. He goes to inform Nurse Hawkins about said break—just so she can inform whoever required his services and direct them upstairs—and then proceeds to head up to his office.

The way over is as uneventful as ever—or at least, Connor assumes as much up until he places his hand on the handle of his door. He hears the click of another door being opened further down the hall, and when he turns to see where its coming from his eyes quickly widen in surprise upon realizing that the sound had come from Anderson exiting his own office. All of Connor's mental preparation for the confrontation he'd intended to do pretty much flies out the proverbial window right there and then as his mind blanks out on what to do. Of _course_ he bumps into Anderson at the one time where he would be the most willfully unprepared.

Still, Connor can't exactly let that stop him. With how hard it is to even catch Anderson within the halls of Pembroke due to his constant excursions out of the hospital—excursions that have only seemed to increase in both length and occasion since the other night—this may be Connor's only chance to corner him and get his answers. While all of this is far from the best idea he has had, it also happens to be the _only_ idea that he has right now.

Connor takes a breath and lets go of the doorknob, then turns and starts walking right towards Anderson, ensuring that their paths will inevitably meet. It doesn't take long at all for that to happen, and Anderson comes to a stop before they would have otherwise crashed into each other. Connor likewise stops as well, though he pointedly stays exactly where he is, refusing to budge an inch even as Anderson looms over him and slowly raises an eyebrow at his peculiar behavior.

Eventually, Anderson seems to get the hint. "Dr. Arkay," he begins, his tone both cautious and uncertain. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Connor takes a second to clear his throat, reminding himself to not fumble over his words this time around. "Yes, actually. I would like to speak to you." A pause, and then he adds on. "In private, preferably."

The raised eyebrow from Anderson goes up even higher. "Is it urgent?"

"Yes." Connor says that mostly because he has a feeling that Anderson would probably try to get himself out of this if Connor had said 'no'. “It’s very urgent," he stresses on after another pause, for good measure. Part of him feels bad about fibbing, but at this point he feels that it's necessary. 

Anderson's eyebrows settle back down, but the uncertainty on his face does not. Connor continues to stand his ground—both figuratively and literally—and simply waits it out. As much as Connor wants to say he manages it due to a bout of bravery, it's really because his nerves feel pretty shot right now from boldly making himself catch Anderson in this fashion. It's certainly something he wouldn't have done in any other situation at any other time. Connor can't quite tell if he's doing this because of some burst of courage or out of desperation. Possibly both.

When Anderson continues to remain unresponsive, Connor feels his earlier stubbornness bending a little. He doesn't exactly cower, but he can definitely the urge to duck low in either shame or embarrassment as he squeaks out a hesitant "...please?" There goes any chance he had now, he supposes. 

But to his surprise, the complete opposite happens instead. Anderson lets out a sigh, looking two parts tired and one part concerned as he gestures down the hallway to where the door of his office can be seen.

"I suppose my office will be the best place then, if you intend to be private," he says, sounding just as weary as he looks. Connor can't help but feel a little bad now, given how worn out Anderson seems to be. He makes a note to explain his intentions as soon as he has his answers and everything is (hopefully) cleared up. 

Connor nods once to show he's heard, then moves, walking around Anderson in order to get to his room. He hears Anderson following after him in short order, which brings him more relief than Connor is going to let himself admit. He may be doing his best to put on a brave front, but it probably wouldn't have stuck if Anderson decided to go back on his word. It gives Connor the hope that perhaps his faith in Anderson isn't entirely misplaced. It would be nice if that was the case.

They get to his office quickly enough, and this time Connor steps aside to let Anderson open the door first. Anderson does so in short order, and once he's done he opens and holds it for Connor to enter. 

Connor almost starts to move, but finds himself hesitating before he can take a step. Now that it's actually happening Connor feels a fair amount of his nervousness coming back to him. He hasn't really considered what he's going to do if it turns out that his suspicion of Anderson's involvement with Crane's departure is actually true. He could go to Kamski with the information that he has—but he highly doubts anything would come of it, considering what he overheard the other night. 

Maybe he should have given this a bit more thought… but it's too late to make such regrets now. The only thing Connor can do at this point is to make the most out of this one opportunity that he has.

With that in mind Connor takes a breath and steels himself before stepping across the threshold and into Anderson’s office. As soon as he’s in the first thing that Connor notices about Anderson’s office is the sheer size of it. Anderson’s office is noticeably larger than most of the other rooms in this building, though Connor attributes that to the fact that this room is located at the end of the hallway more than anything else. 

He glances around as he steps in, taking note of the variety of things scattered about the place. It's modestly furnished with everything any doctor needs, alongside a few other additional things Connor guesses must have been brought over from where he lives. He spies a personal workbench placed at the side, the surface littered with flasks that are all filled with a wide variety of chemicals. Right next to the bench is a small end table that seats a potted plant, although its branches are barren with nary a sign of green upon it. Something sentimental, or perhaps a sample for something that he's working on? It's hard to say at this point in time.

He feels an urge to walk over to the workbench to take a closer look and see exactly what Anderson is doing, but he knows that this really isn't the time and place for it. Well, not so much the place. Mostly just the time. The sound of the door closing shut reminds him as much.

Connor lets his gaze linger on the workbench for one more second before he turns around to face Anderson, who is standing in front of the now closed door. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his expression is guarded and unreadable. Definitely not a good sign for Connor.

Nevertheless, he presses on. Connor has never been one to let others stop him. "There is something I wish to ask of you."

Anderson fixes him with a look. "I noticed," he responds dryly. "My time tonight is short, so I'd appreciate it if you get straight to the point, Dr. Arkay."

Connor feels a slight bit of embarrassment at that, despite everything. He can't exactly admit that he would’ve liked a bit of time to fully prepare himself now that this is happening, but it's clear enough to him delaying this any longer wasn't going to work. Time to jump straight into the heart of the matter, then, as it were. "It's about Nurse Crane."

The reaction that Anderson gets to the question is... interesting. Connor watches his eyes go wide for the briefest of moments before the man seemingly realizes what his face is doing and quickly shutters off his expression into a mask of forced calmness. But even then Connor can still sense the tension that lingers in the air, the heightened state of caution that Anderson is now suddenly in. It makes Connor himself feel on edge, and he feels the hairs on his arms prickle up in response. After witnessing such a strong reaction there’s no doubt that Anderson must be hiding something about Crane—whatever that is, Connor is determined to find out.

"Dr. Kamski told me that you personally picked up her notice of departure." Something which Connor still can't quite believe, even after the time he's spent dwelling on it. If Crane had truly intended to leave, she could have just informed Kamski personally while she was still here. It wasn't as if she didn't lack any opportunities to do so—their work might be busy, but Kamski was usually around, either in his office or around the building. It would have been easy enough to just head up and speak with him with little issue. So the fact that Kamski apparently wasn't even aware of her intention to leave until it happened is... odd. Sure, Connor would understand her not sharing such news with the rest of the staff, but the same can't be said when it concerns Pembroke's administrator. He should know these things—but he claims that he doesn't, and Connor certainly can't say or do anything to show otherwise. Unless...

Connor keeps his gaze on Anderson, his mind whirling as he tries to connect the dots, but its hard when there's so little information to work with. Many of the conclusions that he's drawn are based off assumptions that he’s made, but he's since come to realize that a lot of what should have been the norm is all thrown out of the window when it comes to the affairs in Pembroke. In the past, Connor would have considered that as somewhat of a good thing, but now he doesn't feel as certain. He's no lover of rules himself but he recognizes that they are placed there for a reason, even if the epidemic has made them bend it here and there.

"I did," Anderson finally responds after his long pause. His expression remains shuttered off. "What of it?"

"Well, I was wondering if you—" Connor falters for a moment here, but he doesn't let it stop him entirely. He continues on before Anderson attempt to cut in. "—if you actually, you know... saw Nurse Crane herself when you picked up that notice."

A scowl appears on Anderson's face the moment he hears the question. "Of course I did," he snaps out his response, the annoyance all too audible. "What, did you think I killed her?"

"I, uh—" It'd be a lie to say that Connor hadn't considered that possibility. How could he not, when she had vanished so suddenly? What he _doesn't_ want to consider is the idea of somebody in Pembroke actually doing the deed. They're supposed to be doctors; healers, helping the sick and wounded. Murder goes against everything they're meant to be. The very act of taking a life... just thinking about it sends chills down Connor's spine. The last thing he wants to do is to think that anybody here would be capable of doing something as terrible as that.

Connor turns his head away, suddenly unable to bring himself to meet Anderson's gaze. He knows he shouldn't doubt so easily, that he should trust his own colleagues more, but it's so hard when everything else seems to tell him otherwise. 

"I don't know," he admits. His voice comes out quiet, but it echoes loudly in the silence of the room. "There's just... too many questions unanswered."

Anderson remains silent—not that Connor had expected him to say anything in the first place. Though it's not like Connor himself is done speaking, anyway. Since he doesn't get a response, he takes that as his cue to continue. "We may be only working together due to the epidemic, but from the time I've worked with Nurse Crane here, I do not think she is the kind of person who would so abruptly leave without a word." 

If there were anybody else besides Anderson who Connor respected immensely, it would be her. While many others did not take kindly to her blunt and straightforward attitude, it'd been something that Connor admired about her. She came here to do a job, and its undeniable that she did it well. She worked tirelessly to help every patient that came to Pembroke and would ensure that they'd get the best treatment available. Honestly, part of Connor is convinced that the reason why Pembroke could even function half the time despite the large number of patients is due to Crane's hard work.

Needless to say, Connor feels like he owes a lot to her. And while it is on him that he hasn't let this go even though he's told himself to several times by this point… he feels that he needs to know the truth. Otherwise Connor knows he'll spend the rest of his life wondering about this and second guessing himself if he could have done anything to change whatever happened to her. The guilt of knowing he might’ve failed somebody who he could have helped would eat at his conscience without pause. There's already so many people he failed in the past. He doesn't want to add another name to the list.

He turns his gaze back to Anderson. "I promise I won't tell anyone else." It's impossible to hide how desperate he must sound, now. Connor knows it's foolish to get so hung up about it, but he just has to try. He won't ever forgive himself if he doesn't. "Just... please tell me the truth. I know you've involved in this somehow."

An uncomfortable look passes Anderson's face. "I don't--" he begins to say, but Connor quickly cuts him off.

"Please don't lie to me." His heart is beating so fast now Connor thinks it'll come right off his chest at any given moment. His legs feel weak and shaky from his nerves that has just grown by tenfold. The multitude of emotions rushing through Connor now make him feel faint, but he pushes himself to keep talking. "I—I overheard you the other night. In the office."

Anderson's expression shifts again—only this time, it's one of alarm. "What did you hear?" he immediately asks, sounding incredibly concerned.

It occurs to Connor later how incredibly odd it is that that would be the first question that Anderson asks, but in that moment he's also worked up enough and concerned with a multitude of many other things that the oddity doesn't quite click in his mind then. "I—not much," he half mumbles, now feeling a little overwhelmed by his own emotions. "Mostly, it was just the fact that the both of you said her name. I figured it had to mean something."

Anderson frowns at his answer, but doesn't say anything in return. Connor reaches backwards to grab hold of the back of a nearby chair so that he doesn't fall over. His head feels incredibly heavy, as if a fog's suddenly descended over his mind, weighing down his every thought like a leaden anchor. His body, too, feels sluggish, and now Connor wishes he could turn the chair around so he can sit down instead. It would be nice... but he shouldn't. He needs to stay exactly where he is so that he continue talking to Anderson and get his answers.

"She wouldn't leave her post without a word." Connor's vaguely aware he's said that before, but it bears repeating nevertheless. He needs to make it clear how unnatural her departure is so that Anderson can understand. "She can't. I trusted her that she'd stay through to the end." Maybe that's why he can't let this go. Work at Pembroke may be busy, but at least it gave Connor a constant that he could depend on. Crane had been a part of that constant, and now she was gone. Would that mean all of Pembroke would eventually go away, too?

That should be a good thing. Pembroke going away would mean that the epidemic is over. People would stop dying all the time then. It is a good thing. Yet somehow Connor feels like he'd be lost without this.

What is he thinking? He shouldn't want the epidemic to go on. Connor shakes his head, trying to clear off the fog in his mind. He shifts his weight at the same time so that he doesn't rest so much of it onto the chair he's holding onto, but with how uncoordinated his limbs have suddenly become all that he really manages to do is stumble. He nearly falls, but catches himself just in the nick of time by grabbing onto the edge of a table. It jerks when he does so, causing the items on the surface to rattle, though fortunately nothing falls onto the ground.

As Connor recovers from that particular fumble he hears Anderson approach him with heavy footsteps. "I—are you alright, Dr. Arkay?"

He can feel Anderson's hands (big and strong but also most likely deft considering what he does—) coming towards him. Connor quickly waves them away before they can make contact. "I'm fine," he says, voice tighter and more curt than he expected it to be. "Just—tired. It's been a long week without Nurse Crane around to help." God, he misses her. It not even anything romantic—not that it ever really applied to him, at least with those of the female persuasion—but without her around Connor has been incredibly overwhelmed with how much work he has to do. He's pretty sure he hasn't had more than four hours of sleep in the last several days. That would certainly contribute to his abrupt bout of exhaustion.

"...yes, I suppose." There's something a little off about Anderson's voice, though Connor can't quite place a finger on it. Then again, just trying to think feels very hard to do at this moment. Connor is pretty sure he'll fall asleep if he so much as sits down on a chair or something.

He hears Anderson speak again, but this time everything is far too fuzzy for him to properly make out the words. All he can think of now is sitting down—or even better, lying down—so that he can sleep off this sudden exhaustion. As much as he wants to keep talking to Anderson, there's no way he can continue in this state.

"I'll—I'll get back to you later," he hears himself mumble. "I need to... yes, that." He means rest, but he's sure that Anderson gets the message.

Without bothering to wait for a response Connor pushes himself away from the table. His legs are still shaky but he'll just have to manage like this. The distance from Anderson's office to his own isn't very far, anyway, and there will be walls all the way through. He can manage this trip.

With a grunt Connor begins to move, stumbling while he struggles to put one foot after the other. He hears Anderson attempting to approach him but waves him off again. He doesn't need help for something this simple. He can manage this. He has to.

He can still feel Anderson's presence hovering close to him while he continues to make his way over to the door. He'd try to shoo him away one more time, but he'd rather save his focus for making sure he doesn't fall flat right onto the floor with his face.

One step after another, he tells himself as he walks. All he has to do is to keep going, and eventually he'll get there. It's how he's done it before, and it's how he'll get through this too. As long as he doesn't stop.

The distance from where he first started to where the door is shouldn't feel as long as it does right now. Somehow it almost feels like every step is taking him further away instead of the opposite. Connor would have claimed sorcery, if such a thing existed. But it doesn't. All Connor knows he can blame on is his own tired, fragile body, so worn down from the constant nights of overworking and so little rest. He knows he needs to rest more, but how can he sleep knowing that the epidemic is still out there? No matter how hard he tries and how much he pushes himself there will still be somebody who ends up dying. There will be another body to carry away, another empty bed to fill, another life to be lost. 

Connor's just so tired of it all. He wants it all to stop.

His mind falters, and his vision wavers, causing Connor to trip over his own feet and fall towards the ground. But before he can hit the floor a thick, broad arm wraps around his waist and pulls him back upright.

Connor grunts softly as the force of the pull has his back collide with something else firm and solid. He tries to turn around but the arm around his waist tightens, firmly holding him in place.

"Don't struggle." Anderson rasps out right next to his ear. His breath rushes over the shell, somehow scalding hot. "I'm here to help you."

 _Help_ is not what Connor would say Anderson is doing here. The closer approximation would be intrusive. Or perhaps disruptive, because ever since he arrived at Pembroke Connor's restful nights have become a lot more of that. Not that he'll ever tell anybody that, least of all Anderson himself.

So Connor struggles instead, because he's really not in the mood to play nice now. The night has been exceptionally long and Anderson has not been in any way cooperative, so why should he bother to return the courtesy?

Anderson tries to stop him again, but when it proves futile he lets out an aggravated sigh. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he mutters, and the next thing Connor is aware of is the fact that his feet are no longer touching the ground.

He makes a wholly undignified sound and renews his struggles to get out of Anderson's hold on him. "Let me go!" he says—or at least that's what he attempts to say, because being tired means his words slur together and they come out as something closer to a jumbled mess of 'lemeguh'.

Either way, it seems like its coherent enough for Anderson to get it, since he does respond. "I could, but then you'd be sleeping on the damned floor," he huffs out. "And then you'll be making an even bigger fool out of yourself."

The words are enough to make Connor quiet down—just a little. It's not like he gives too much care about what people think of him, but there is more than his own reputation to think about. His patron, in particular, wouldn't be very pleased with him if she were to hear about any of this.

Still, that doesn't mean he's going to let Anderson have the last word. "You're mean."

A snort. "And you're a lot more childish than I'd have expected."

"Rude." Very, very rude. Nothing at all like what Connor expected him to be. Not that... he minds it that much. In fact, it's actually almost refreshing—so many of his peers prior to Pembroke were all the sort to beat around the bush and make themselves sound a lot more sophisticated than Connor knew them to actually be. He knows that it's all simply a result of how they're raised and the circles they live in, but still. He could only take so much before it all became incredibly factitious. Seeing that Anderson isn't that kind of person in spite of his own prestige is incredibly comforting.

...he really should be more mad about being carried like a child, but it's hard to muster up that anger when a bigger part of him is just... impressed, for a variety of reasons. Like the fact that the bulk that Anderson hides under all his clothes isn't just for show, given the fact that he's currently hauled over the other's shoulder.

Maybe his admiration for Anderson is starting to become a little more beyond a mere distraction. Not that he should have ever even let it become a distraction in the first place, but that's neither here nor there.

With no other way to leverage himself out of this, all Connor can do is to let himself be carried all the way back to his office. Even with his... opinions about Anderson Connor certainly still doesn't appreciate being carried like this, but he also knows when to fold—at least for now. It's not like he can really do much in his current state.

Compared to his own terrible attempt of reaching the door, the time Anderson spends going from his office to Connor's feels incredibly short. Not that it shouldn't be, but somehow it feels even shorter than normal. But that’s probably just his exhaustion talking, though. The whole part with the door earlier had shown him that much.

Connor only has a second to appreciate the fact that this all happened without anybody else having to bear witness to any of this before he's unceremoniously dropped onto his bed. It's sudden enough that it causes Connor to let out another undignified yelp at the momentary sense of vertigo he'd felt right before he actually lands.

Once Connor is certain that he is indeed on safe ground he turns his head and sends a squinted glare at Anderson. "You've got terrible bedside manners," he says, just barely managing to not slur his words together again.

Anderson gives him another eyeroll. "Well, you're not a patient," he points back out in return. "Just a particularly stubborn colleague who is trying to force my hand."

"That's because you don't say anything about yourself." Connor hadn't quite intended to say those words, but he's exhausted enough that his usual brain to mouth filter isn't quite working as it should. It also means it doesn't quite click to him exactly _why_ Anderson suddenly gives him a strange, unreadable look at those words. It's not like that's any more or less mysterious than how he usually is.

Ugh, dwelling on all of that is just giving him a headache now. Connor scowls and rubs at his temples, then turns to lie on his side, his back facing away from Anderson. "Don't think this means you're getting out of it," he mumbles under his breath, more for himself than Anderson. Tonight had just been a bad night; next time, he'll make sure to be better prepared so he can confront Anderson properly instead of making a fool out of himself.

As much as Connor tries to be aware of the fact that Anderson is still in his office, it's hard to hold onto his consciousness now that he's properly lying down. Everything quickly gets fuzzy and distant, and Connor thinks he feels the brush of fingers against his forehead, the digits somehow much cooler than he knows they should be.

"I'm sorry," he thinks (imagines?) Anderson saying those words. "I wish I could change what I've done, but all I can do is make the most out of the mistakes that I’ve made."

Sleep claims Connor soon after that, and he knows no more.


	4. Chapter 4

The next night proves to be much quieter than the last, a fact that Connor is thankful for because it means he has the time to nurse his ego after the embarrassment he’d suffered upon waking up. Somehow he'd managed to sleep through the whole night—that is to say, the entirety of his shift—and had only woken up when the sun rose and the sunlight had shone right at his face, causing him to jerk awake quite abruptly. That alone would already have been bad enough, but then he had attempted to get out of bed in his dazed, disoriented state, which only led to an even bigger mess when he ended up falling off his cot. 

The shout that he’d let out when that happened unsurprisingly brought one of the nurses up to his office, although at least he'd managed to get up on his feet before they got to the door. It’s one thing to sleep through his working hours, and another thing entirely to make a whole commotion about it when you wake up from said sleep. The fact that nothing else happened is a small consolation at best, but Connor will take what he can get after the sheer mortification that went through him once he realized what he did.

Since he'd slept through his entire shift, Connor makes up for it by working through the day. It’s not exactly something that he should’ve done, but Kamski had been pretty accommodating and forgiving about the whole thing—though the bemused smile he gave when he mentioned that Anderson already informed him what happened certainly doesn't help to ease the embarrassment that lingers inside Connor. 

It's probably a blessing that Anderson seems to have elected to do one of his lengthy excursions outside of Pembroke when evening comes, judging from the fact that Connor doesn't spot him anywhere. Part of him still wonders about the exact nature of his outings… but after last night, Connor is inclined to put some distance between them for several reasons—some of them professional, but most of them personal. These… distractions he has about Anderson are starting to get ridiculous. He's lucky enough as it is that he simply didn't straight up babble out everything that had been in his mind last night, though he’s well aware of how close he’d been to doing so. He needs to draw a line now, before things get any worse.

The mystery of Anderson can wait for another time. For now, he has patients to focus on—and focus on his work is what Connor indeed does for the rest of the night. He pointedly keeps both his body and mind busy with patient after patient, ensuring that all their charts and notes are up to date so that the rest of the staff will know what to do. He goes to handle whatever new cases that comes (not too many this night, fortunately) and tries not to dwell too much on the bodies that they have to take out to the coroner at the back. Even though Connor is aware that the loss of a life is always inevitable, it's hard to not take it personally. There's always the idea of 'what if' which will always linger at the back of his mind. It hurts, but all he can do is to learn from the experience and do whatever he can to ensure that it won't happen again.

Overall, it's a long, hard night—as most nights working at Pembroke tend to be. Still, at least Connor feels like he's actually doing something meaningful in these trying times. That's already a hell of a lot better than most of the people down at the West End; they’d rather rather hole themselves up in their fancy houses and pretend that London isn't slowly descending into chaos right outside their doorsteps.

It's well past midnight by the time one of the nurses informs him that he can take his leave for the night as soon as he finishes his current set of rounds. Part of Connor wants to argue his case and continue working, but after what happened last night he's well aware that he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on. The staff might have not said anything but he doesn't doubt the fact that they're at least aware of the basics of what transpired, and that's bad enough as it is. He'd rather take the rest and come back refreshed and knowing that his exhaustion won’t make a fool of him again. Once is more than enough.

His body seems to agree as much; as he approaches the end of his shift Connor can feel just how tired and worn out he feels despite having had his impromptu rest. The weariness only gets more prominent as he heads to check on his last patient of the night—Harriet Jones, and her ever sharp tongue. The mere thought of having to deal with her is enough to test his patience, but Connof supposes _somebody_ has to do this, and he’d rather be the one to take it than to ask any of the other stay to endure her abrasive personality.

Still, he can’t help but sigh as he turns around to the corridor where Harriet Jones is at, already mentally bracing himself for another round of having to endure her verbal lashing. Maybe he should have come to her first when he began his last rounds, but Harriet has a way of knowing all the gossip that happens among the staff, and the last thing he wants to deal with are her snide comments about his displays of buffoonery between last night and now. He can already imagine the kind of things that she'd say to his face as well as away from it. It's almost enough to make him want to get a nurse to handle this instead.

But—no. This is still something that he has to do, regardless of what he feels about her. Just as how he still has to keep going on in spite of whatever he might feel towards Anderson. Not for the first time tonight Connor pointedly reminds himself to stay professional. Maybe he needs that break even more than he'd realized, if his mind is also willing to plot against him like this. It's frankly getting ridiculous at this point. 

Pembroke has always been quiet, but as Connor reaches the end of the corridor it occurs to him that it is perhaps a little _too_ quiet. He casts a quick look around him and notices that Hampton has once again left his bed, presumably to go and talk to (pester) Harriet as usual. Connor vaguely recalls the nurses informing him that Hampton has been doing it a lot more than usual today—just about any time when there isn't anyone to watch either one of them.

Yet another thing he has to deal with. Connor doesn't stop himself from sighing this time as he passes by Hampton's empty bed and heads for Harriet's room. The door has been left slightly ajar—Hampton's fault, in all likelihood—so all Connor has to do is to reach out and push said door open, stepping in the moment he does so.

"Mr. Hampton, please—" Anything else that Connor had intended to say quickly falls away from him when he actually registers exactly what he's seeing right before his eyes at this very moment.

He sees—he sees Harriet Jones not in her bed for once, not because she's away but rather because Sean Hampton has hauled her up in the air by her throat with a single hand, displaying strength that is clearly beyond what he should've been capable of. He keeps her up, uncaring for the fact that her body is jerking and convulsing violently as her flesh warps and mutates right before his very eyes, swelling up in spots like a giant flesh balloon. Her mouth, he sees, is open in a silent scream.

Connor takes a step back, his mind attempting to comprehend exactly what he is seeing—or what is even happening in the first place. There is just so much going on that he doesn’t know where to even begin—but what he _does_ know is that right now Harriet is clearly in some sort of danger, and Hampton needs to be stopped.

He steps back forward and finds back enough of his voice to shout. "Mr. Hampton!"

The shout does its job. Hampton turns his head over to look at Connor, who instantly balks upon seeing his face. He sees blood splattered across his face and even more dripping down his chin, but that is not the most terrifying thing of all. No, what truly horrifies him is the inhumanity that he can see in the former priest's eyes. There's a darkness to them now that Connor hasn't seen before on him, yet somehow feels like he's noticed it elsewhere not too long ago.

But there's no time to think about what that might mean, or what anything that he's seeing now means, because the next thing Connor knows is the pain of being slammed _hard_ onto the nearby wall. The collision sends a shock of pain through his entire body, knocking out all the breath in his lungs, leaving him completely fazed as he slides down and crumples into a heap on the ground.

Connor tries to focus, but the world is still spinning and every part of his body screams in pain just from that one beating he'd taken. There's no way he'd be able to even move at this state, let alone escape and find help.

Still, he has to somehow try. Connor attempts to fight against the throbbing and spinning of his head as he summons out whatever he can of his voice to shout for help. "Somebody, help—"

He gets cut off before he can say anything beyond that, because now ice-cold fingers grip his chin and _squeeze_ , the force of it painful enough to stop him as he shifts to a wince. Those same fingers then direct his head to look up—right onto Hampton's now monstrous face.

Dark, shadowy eyes flicker up to stare at Connor. "You picked a bad time to come in, Dr. Arkay." Despite the visage he bears now Hampton's voice holds the same gentle, soothing cadance as before, and the dichotomy between that is jarring. "I was hoping that our departure would be unhindered, but the Lord must test all of his children."

The sound of footsteps start to resound from outside the room; no doubt Connor's shout, despite being cut off, must have brought them to alert. Hampton hears it as well, and it causes him to frown.

"More obstacles," Connor hears him mutter, and in the next instance the pressure on Connor's face eases up as Hampton lets go. Connor coughs violently as he slouches back against the wall to keep himself upright, trying to keep his eyes open as he sees Hampton step back towards Harriet's bed where its occupant now lies deathly still upon it.

The sight of it sends dread pooling in his gut, and it intensifies further when Hampton bends down to pick up the body of Harriet Jones into his arms. He cradles her close, like that of a father holding his child, then turns and starts to head for the door.

Despite the pain wrecking through his body and being well aware that his strength is meager compared to Hampton's inhuman one, Connor knows that he still has to try and stop this somehow. He can't just let Sean Hampton kill a patient, injure a doctor and simply walk out like that. Man of the cloth or not, he's breaking the law and Connor isn't going to let him get away scott-free.

With how much he hurts Connor knows there's not much he can really do, but damn him if he doesn't try to do something at the very least. Through his bleary vision he watches Hampton approach the door and times himself to reach out and grab him by his ankle, gripping it with as much strength as he can muster, hoping that it'll be enough to force Hampton to stop—at least until help arrives.

Connor can't tell if the strength that he’s exerting is enough through his pain, but from the fact that Hampton stops moving he can only assume that he's managed it.

He feels the cloth shift around his hand when Hampton turns on his heel, presumably to face him. "Please let go, Dr. Arkay." The words are gentle, but there’s a dark undercurrent in his tone that simply screams danger.

All Connor does in response is to tighten his grip. "You know that I won't."

He hears Hampton sigh in return, the sound of it both the same and at the same time so very different from the other times he's heard that from him. "Then, I apologize for what I must do next."

There's no time to react—not that Connor could have done so anyway, what with his already existent injuries, with another adding to the pile when Connor feels himself getting hit _hard_ by the side of his head. The force of it is bad enough that it makes him let go of Hampton's ankle as he crumples onto his side this time round. God, it hurts. Everything hurts even more now—especially his head. It throbs with a pain so intense that his vision turns spotty. Even keeping his eyes open now is an effort. Still, Connor doesn't let himself give up. He blindly tries to reach out and grab onto Hampton however he can, stubbornness being the only thing left that's keeping him conscious and moving. 

But dogged stubbornness can only get him so far when his body is at its limit. Connor feels himself grasping at nothing but air before a forceful kick to his side causes Connor to wince and drop his arm as a fresh wave of pain rocks through him, this one more intense than the rest that he’s felt.

"I really am sorry," he hears Hampton say above him. "But I am doing what needs to be done, for everyone's sake here. Maybe one day you'll come to understand."

Connor would've tried to say something here in return, but his body hurts too much for him to be able to speak. All he can do is to stay where he is on the floor, his vision and senses slowly fading as he watches Hampton turn away from him and make his exit out of Harriet's room. 

The urge for Connor to do _anything_ rises to a screaming crescendo within him, but with the state of his body there is literally nothing he can accomplish. Not even when he hears the footsteps of the others approaching the room, or their subsequent screams when they cross Hampton's path and their attempts to stop him end just as badly, if not worse.

 _I'm sorry,_ is all that Connor can think to himself before the pain in his body becomes too great, making him lose the last grip he has on his consciousness as he plummets into darkness.

* * *

Considering the series of events that led him to being unconscious, it's not too much of a surprise that the loud slam of a door in the distance is what jerks him back into the world of the waking. 

Connor's eyes fly wide open the moment the sound registers in his mind. His body is tense, ready to spring into action (or more likely, retreat); the only thing that stops him is the sheer pain of his all injuries flaring up at once, reminding him of what exactly had happened to cause him to end up in his current state. The corridor, the room, Hampton and Harriet, and then—

Connor turns onto his side with a groan as he recalls the last hit he’d taken, keenly feeling the pain that courses through him now, making his vision go blurry. He's not one to usually swear but _god_ if his whole body dpoesn’t hurt like fucking hell. Since he could turn his body that probably means he has no need for any kind of sling or support needed for him, which in turn implies that despite all the pain that he's currently feeling he somehow hasn't fractured or broken anything inside. That's certainly something enough of a miracle, or maybe Connor was simply lucky in that department. Not that anything about this could even be remotely considered as such.

As Connor tries to shake the haze off his mind he attempts to try and put together what in the world had happened. There'd been Harriet Jones, her body becoming twisted and deformed right before his eyes, and Sean Hampton, who'd been holding her, and… 

His thoughts get interrupted when he hears the echo of an unfamiliar voice sounding out. It's muffled enough that he can't hear the actual word—but he can tell that whoever it is, they sound extremely angry, and that's never a good thing from Connor's experience.

He’d try to make an attempt to get out of bed and go to where the shouting his happening, but before he can do so he hears a door open, followed by the sound of several footsteps. A second later the face of Nurse Hawkins comes into his vision, her expression sitting somewhere between relieved and annoyed.

“Thank goodness you’re alright,” she begins to say, quickly hushing Connor with a hand when he tries to open his mouth to speak. “It was rather touch and go for a while, but I’m glad you made it through. The last thing we need is to have to take off another name off the staff list.”

Connor quickly snaps his mouth shut after _that_ particular line. He knows that Hawkins doesn’t mean anything by saying that, but at the same time hearing those words feels a lot like taking a punch to the face. Though it might seem otherwise, it really hasn’t been long at all since Crane’s abrupt resignation. And now there was this whole thing with Hampton…

God, Hampton. _Harriet._

The memory of what happened hits him like a bolt of lightning, the images so clear they might as well have been seared into his mind. An urgency rises from within him as he stares wide eyed at Hawkins and tries to start voicing out his question. “S-She… Jones—is she…”

“Finally awake, is he? About time.”

The sudden, unfamiliar voice quickly cuts Connor off before he can finish. Hawkins turns and scowls, her displeasure clearly evident, but it seems like even her strong headedness is no match for the one who’d interrupted them. 

Before either of them are able to say anything else a hand lands on Hawkin’s shoulder, and Connor watches as she’s rudely shoved aside to make space for Connor’s apparent other visitor to step in. Though dressed in an attire reminiscent of what he’d usually see up in the West End, the demeanor of Connor’s new visitor is nothing like them. If anything, Connor feels like this new person could probably get along with those Wet Boot Boys at their territory at the docks.

Where most people would have been scared off by an aura like that (and Connor certainly can’t deny the unease he feels), Hawkins remains as strong willed as ever, as how the female staff here tend to be. “Mr Reed,” she begins, the annoyance clear in her voice, “I know you want to question Dr Arkay, but he has just woken up and requires—”

“If he wakes up, that means he can speak.” The man—Reed, was it?—more or less like he could care less. Connor only tolerates it because he’d rather have this rudeness on him instead of anybody else. It doesn’t stop him from frowning though when Reed scowls down and actually speaks to him this time. “You. Tell me what what happened, now.”

All Connor does is to blink in response. He registers the fact that he’s been asked something, but if he were to be honest things just kind of kept happening since he’d woken up and his mind is still busy with processing it all.

Reed, however, seems to take Connor’s silence as a refusal to speak instead. Both his scowl and his glare intensifies, and the volume of his voice rises as he growls out what seems to be a warning. “If you’re trying to _protect_ those fucking leeches, I swear—”

Connor only has a moment to think _leeches?_ before he gets distracted when Hawkins maraches back up to Reed, her famously short-tempered nature no doubt riled up from the way Reed had all but shoved her aside earlier. 

“Mr Reed,” she starts again, this time with a clear note of warning. “If you insist on harassing Dr Arkay, I will be forced to ask the administrator to personally come down and escort you out of the premises.”

The warning gets through, for better or for worse; Reed snaps his mouth back shut, though his glare remains. Connor sees the man give him another look before turning away, letting out a loud ‘tch’. “Fuckin’ useless, the lot of you.” Connor isn’t entirely sure if Reed meant for anybody to hear that or if he simply doesn’t seem to possess some kind of ability to mutter under his breath without being overheard. “Guess I’ll need to see him after all.”

Hawkins, if anything, looks even less pleasant now after Reed’s last few remarks, but professionalism apparently makes her continue to address him nevertheless. “I can bring you to the administrator's office if necessary—”

Reed waves her off before she can finish. “I don’t need your bloody coddling,” he quips, earning another frown from Hawkins. “Go back to your nurse duties or whatever it is you were going to do with the ambulance.”

Connor blinks again at that—why would he suddenly bring up Milton?—but apparently it seems that whatever Reed meant hits a nerve with Hawkins. She fumes visibly, throwing Reed one last dirty look before she makes her way out of the office. 

“Tch.” Connor shifts his gaze over to Reed when he makes that sound. The man doesn’t bother to hide his annoyance as he scuffs his boots against the floor. “Fuckin’ told him it was only a matter of time before shit like this would happen.”

Another blink from Connor. Curiosity would dictate that he ask this Reed about everything that he’s just said since his first spoken word, but it's incredibly obvious that he’d get nothing in response. But from what he can tell it seems that Reed is aware of what had happened—and more importantly, seems to know something that Connor doesn’t.

That, more than anything else, is what makes him open his mouth, a million questions already rushing to the forefront of his mind. “What—”

Unfortunately, Connor doesn’t get very far at all; Reed lets out one more hiss under his breath, then proceeds to walk out of the office as well, leaving Connor to his own devices. 

For a while, Connor simply stays where he is, doing little else besides blinking as his mind continues to process everything that’s happened since he woke up. It’s clear enough that Reed came here due to the incident, though the _why_ is still something that he doesn’t know. After what he went through the logical choice would’ve been to stay where he is and let the people who actually know what’s going on handle it—but after what he’d seen there’s no way Connor can simply let things go. Even if he can’t actually do anything, Connor still desires answers—answers that Reed would have.

So even though he knows it is incredibly ill-advised, Connor forces himself to move. He ignores the way his body protests as he slowly pushes himself to sit up in bed. Everything still hurts like hell, but Connor is nothing if not stubborn, and after what happened there's no way he's going to stay lying here and pretend nothing is wrong when something is clearly so very, very wrong.

The process is slow and excruciating, but eventually Connor manages to sit up in bed, which definitely had taken a lot more out of him than he’d expected. He’s forced to take a moment to catch his breath, feeling the strain in his body despite the fact that all he’s done is to sit up.

The hospital is by no means silent, but there’s definitely a hushness that wasn’t there before—most likely due to the incident with Hampton. But it also means that he can hear Reed’s loud voice travelling to his room from wherever he is, though noticeably muffled—so if Connor wants to be able to listen to whatever's going on outside, he's going to have to get out of his room. With the current state of his body, it's definitely a tall order, but Connor isn't going to let that stop him. The challenge now is to actually get out of bed—and to do so without falling down on the ground and make another commotion. 

Connor eyes at his surroundings, trying to see what is around to further increase his odds of success. He quickly spots the length of wall that runs from the end of his cot that goes to the door, with little to no furniture getting in the way. He takes a moment to be grateful for the fact that he hasn’t brought over many things from his house to the hospital; he’s certain that he wouldn't have this path open to him now, if he had. 

With his route secured, Connor wastes no time to put it into action. He slowly shifts himself to the end of his bed, then musters up all the strength that he has to push himself off entirely and get up onto his feet. Luckily, it seems like he hasn't been unconscious long enough for his legs to work against him. His body still hurts like hell, but at this point the pain is familiar enough that he can work through it. Doesn't really make it any better, and Connor knows he's going to pay for pushing himself like this later. But, as stated, those can all come _later_ , after he figures out what the hell is going on.

Once he gets up onto his feet Connor quickly shifts himself to lean against the wall for much needed support. Being ill-advisedly upright means that his head is still somewhat woozy from his injuries, but Connor manages to keep himself focused enough to not let it get in the way. All he's got to do is put one foot after the other and keep going forward, just like every other time. As long as he doesn't stop and give up, he'll get to where he wants to be.

But even with that in mind it doesn't really get any easier. The aches of his body continue to throb with every step that he takes, and several times its bad enough that he stumbles despite having the wall to support him. Said wall is also the reason why he doesn't end up on the floor, which is something he can easily be grateful for. 

Eventually, Connor manages to get to the door. Reed’s loud, angry voice continues to drift down from where he is, and now that Connor’s closer (or at least he assumes he is) it’s getting easier to make out what the words are. He's fairly certain he hears something like 'guards' or 'hunters', but it's hard to be sure. He's sure that will change once he manages to get out of his room and over to wherever Reed has gone to.

With a shaky hand (said shakiness being from his overexertion and nothing else) Connor gets his door open. He leans against said door as he does that, shifting his weight over from the wall to it instead, hoping to use his own body to let himself out. For the most part it succeeds—up until the added weight also means that his door swings out much further than usual and ends up hitting the wall next to it. While the impact isn't exactly _loud_ , it's still noticeable enough that anybody could easily hear it if they paid enough attention. Which just might be the case with Hawkins.

Connor holds his breath then, heart pounding as he waits for somebody to appear and catch him like this. The seconds slowly tick by, and as time passes with nothing happening at all Connor feels himself relaxing—just a little. It's impossible to say that he's in the clear, but at least for now it seems like everyone is far too busy dealing with the aftermath of what happened (or in Hawkins’ case, too busy fuming at Reed) to notice this, for better or for worse. 

Best to take advantage of that while he still can. Connor slowly moves himself to the wall once more, pausing for a moment to catch his breath because he's started to pant from exerting himself like this. For a moment, he considers the exact nature of _how_ he's going to go back after this, but that's... something he'll think about later. For now, Connor is much more focused about getting to where Reed is.

He gets to the end of the hallway and slowly rounds the corner, keeping one eye at the stairs just in case somebody is coming up there—

"You've set the table for a snake, and yet you wonder why there's venom in your food."

Connor barely manages to stifle down his gasp as he presses himself up back up against the wall right at the corner. It’s Reed’s voice, and apparently somehow he’s close enough to where he is to hear his voice with such clarity. He certainly wonders why, though right now he supposes that's not very important. What matters more is—

"I'm growing tired of your rabble," Connor feels his heart skip a beat when he recognizes this particular voice to be Kamski's. A secondary realization settles in after that when Connor realizes that he’s next to Kamski’s office, which is where Reed is in right now. "You're a woodsman, Gavin, not a doctor. Return to your hunt, _outside_ of these walls."

Reed—or rather, Gavin, as addressed by Kamski—gives a snarl. "Don't play these games with me, Elijah. You know I've got a good nose for machinations. I can find the scent of these bloodsuckers a mile away." A brief pause. "You can't hide from the Guard, no matter how much you try."

The following silence after that can only be called _tense_ , even to Connor. He can't see whatever's going on from where he is and there are a million things running through his mind right now (such as _why is Reed on a first name basis with Kamski?_ ), but he can certainly feel the sudden, oppressive weight that fills the air, a sense of dread that lurks right at the corner of his vision. It reminds him heavily of that one, horrifying moment when he'd first walked into Harriet's room and saw Hampton in there all bloodied and with his hands on her throat. 

Something deep and primal within him trembles.

Connor can't tell how long this particular silence stretches on for, only when it's finally broken when Kamski speaks up again. "Leave him be, Anderson. Gavin may be a brute but even he knows better than to try anything within these walls."

The mention of Anderson's name gives Connor pause. He wasn't aware that Anderson was present that too, but he supposes that explains why he could suddenly hear everything so clearly—the door must have been left open when Anderson had joined in, or something along those lines. Whatever the case, Connor's somewhat thankful for it.

He hears another irritable ‘tch’, presumably coming from Reed like what he’d done earlier. "I don't know why the hell Elijah would want somebody like _you_ in this place, but you better watch yourself. If you even so much as get a _toe_ across the line..."

"I always err on the side of caution," comes Kamski's voice once more, his usual easygoing tone edging into something a little more... warring. "And I trust Anderson with my life. A sentiment that I sadly cannot have with my own brother, it seems."

There's another pause, and this time Connor feels his mind boggling as yet another important bit of information has apparently unearthed itself. So this Reed is actually Kamski's _brother_? From the way he'd spoken it certainly seems to imply that, but he doesn't want to base his guesses on a single statement. But still...

"Tch." Reed is certainly far from the most pleasant person, from what Connor can tell. Certainly a lot more direct and confrontational than Kamski is, if they truly are related. "Don't come crying to me when you find your precious patients and staff all dead because of this _thing_ in your midst."

"I have a _name_ ," Anderson snaps out at this point, and it's easy enough to hear from the tone of his voice that his usually tempered patience is reaching its limit. "And I would appreciate it if you actually bothered to use it, Mr. Reed."

The oppressive silence is back yet again. Connor can imagine this time what must be happening—Anderson staring down at Reed with his anger threatening to flare. Connor hasn't seen Anderson lose his temper before, but he also has no intention of wanting to change that. 

He feels sweat beading on his brow as the moments pass, the tension so high it feels like it could crackle itself into something tangible. Connor wonders briefly if he could try to step in himself here to diffuse whatever's going on, but thinks better of it. No, whatever is happening here is clearly beyond him. Putting himself into this now is probably just going to cause _more_ trouble, not less.

Fortunately, it seems that Kamski has noticed the rising tension in the room as well. "If you two truly wish to settle matters, I suggest you take it outside," he says, a weary sigh tacked on to the end there. "This is a place of healing, a sacred ground. _Neutral_ territory." Another brief pause. "And I also just had the carpet cleaned."

More silence, and then—footsteps, and judging by the way they sound, Connor can make out that it is somebody—singular—leaving Kamski's office. The tension in Connor’s body leaves as soon as he realizes that. At least it seems like things will be alright there, for now. Or in whatever capacity 'alright' is at this moment. He also takes this chance as well to peer over the corner to see just who exactly is leaving the office. Unsurprisingly, it turns out to be Reed.

Now that Connor can look at him with more clarity—even if it is just from the back—he can see that his stature does fairly resemble Kamski's, which certainly lends credence to the idea of Reed actually being related to Kamski. There's no real way to be sure unless Connor asks, but even he knows better than to do that, especially when it means having to risk going through the volatile anger that Reed tends to display. Connor wants to say that he’s being this disagreeable due to the stress of the incident and whatever responsibility he feels for it, but… he has a feeling it's nothing like that at all.

Reed stays standing there for several moments while Connor continues to watch him, wondering what the other is going to do now after this. Kamski had explicitly said not to cause any trouble inside here, but was he actually going to listen? Connor is in no shape to stop the man if he did try to do something, but at least he could call for help, or make some kind of noise to draw attention—

Connor is lost enough in his thoughts that he almost misses Reed turning in his direction until right before their gazes meet. Connor quickly pulls back, plastering himself up against the wall and holding his breath, hoping that he hadn't been caught in the worst way possible. There's really nothing he can do if that is the case, but after what he'd heard earlier Connor has no desire to get into any more trouble. 

The seconds pass. Connor feels himself sweating again as the tension ratchets up to nearly unbearable levels. If Reed were to come over here and spot him then all Connor can do is to hope that things won't end up as horribly as it had with Hampton.

God, Hampton. Harriet. The blood, everywhere. Connor swears he can still smell it, even though there’s nary a stain on him and he's fairly certain that the blood downstairs is most likely gone by now. He squeezes his eyes shut as his breathing quickens, limbs trembling from more than just exertion. He hadn't thought too much about it until this very moment, what with everything that's happened since waking up, but now that the thought’s finally occurred to him everything comes rushing back to him. What he'd witnessed there—what he experienced—he knows it'll be something he can never forget, even long after the mess in Harriet’s room has been cleaned up. If only it could be just as easy to clean up the memories that he doesn't want to keep in his mind.

Connor focuses on keeping his breathing even, trying not to let the memories overwhelm him. A fairly tall order, considering how fresh everything still is in his mind, but at this point it's all he can do. Nothing's going to get better if he dithers about and lets himself get caught, both figuratively and literally.

More time passes, and eventually Connor hears the old stairs creak as Reed presumably heads down. He relaxes once more—that'd been a hell of a close call, but at least he's averted himself from one particular crisis, which is commendable enough for him.

Still, best not to risk his chances when he's already had one too many close calls. Connor stays where he is, keeping his eyes closed as he regulates his breathing back to normal. Now that he isn't entirely focused on Reed the voices of Anderson and Kamski float over to him, and he manages to pick up snippets of whatever they're discussing. 

"—mentioned a dead patient. Who is he?"

"She, Anderson. She was Harriet Jones. Her room was like a slaughterhouse when I got there. It's a miracle as it is that Arkay was found alive."

Connor feels his stomach flip when he realizes what exactly they're talking about. It certainly doesn't help with everything that he's feeling right now. He draws in a deep breath and holds it in, debating about returning to his room. It's probably the best course of action, considering.

He does his best to gather himself together, and is just about to start moving when he hears Anderson's voice again. "If Hampton left him alive, does that mean he's also—"

"No." Kamski quickly cuts in, and the abrupt sharpness in his voice surprises Connor. "I've done a thorough check to be certain. We've already slipped up once, with Sean Hampton; I can't afford for it to happen again. Especially not when it concerns one of the staff."

A pause sets in then, long enough to be notable before Anderson finally breaks it. "...very well." For some reason it almost seems like he sounds… defeated. "I was the one who brought Hampton here with me. It only makes sense that I'd be the one to deal with it."

"Considering the nature of what is involved, you are the only one I can ask once more."

If Connor didn't have questions before, he certainly has them now. Just like with Harriet Jones, he did notice that Hampton's... aliments had been odd. Nothing as bad as Jones', considering how he could move around with little to no trouble at all, but it had been troubling enough for him to remain at Pembroke even after he’d recovered from his initial injuries—and despite the man's own insistence on wanting to return to his shelter at the East End. 

Is that where he went, after breaking out of this place? Not to mention the fact that Harriet has been apparently confirmed dead by Kamski... while she certainly looked terrible, Connor can't quite find it in himself to believe that she was actually murdered. Then again, everything that he'd seen there could only be best described as _unnatural_.

Connor runs a hand down his face and lets out a shaky sigh. He can feel his ever incessant curiosity gnawing at him even in the face of what he'd seen and experienced, but at the same time it is because of that very same thing that he's incredibly hesitant to pry any further. Whatever's happening now, it's clearly far beyond the realms of anything natural. 

...which leads to the question of what _Anderson_ has anything to do with this, and had it been any other time Connor would be itching to find out. But now, after what happened? Even Connor knows better at this point. Curiosity kills the cat, as they say, and Connor can now see why such a phrase exists. No matter how much he wants to know there is only so much knowledge one should possess before it works against them.

"...so, who is that—fellow?" Anderson's voice floats across the hall towards Connor once more, breaking him out of his impromptu reverie.

"You don't need to be so polite just because he and I share a similar visage." Kamski's bemusement is audible even to Connor all the way out here. "His name is Gavin Reed. Currently, he serves as the leader of the Guard of Priwen. I'm sure you've met several of their members during your excursions out in the streets."

"Since the very first night." A brief pause. "Are we not going to address the elephant in the room?"

"If by that you mean the fact that we are related, then by all means, I am free to answer any queries you may have."

Well, that certainly answers one of the questions that Connor had from earlier, even if it brings up several more in turn. Questions such as what exactly this 'Guard of Priwen' is; Connor's heard mention of them before in passing, but said mentions had been less than flattering. Mostly patients and staff alike (Milton, the ambulance, has been particularly vocal about it) talk about how the people there were no better than brutes who'd randomly break into houses to steal their valuables, or outright extorting people to maintain their operations, or just hurting them because they could. They essentially were no better than bullies. So knowing that Kamski's own brother is actually the leader of such a group is... well, there clearly has to be some kind of reason for it. 

Anderson apparently seems to be of the same mind as he does. "Are you not concerned about this fact?"

"I won't lie and say that I am," Kamski's voice is quieter now that Connor almost wouldn't have been able to catch it if he wasn't focused on catching what he says. "But I understand why he is there. Just as I chose my own path to follow the Brotherhood all those years ago, he chose his and joined the Guard."

A hum from Anderson. "So you two are... estranged?"

"More or less, yes. We used to be close, but we've had a... difference in opinion, you might say. We made the decision to live our own lives from that point." A pause, this time presumably from Kamski. "Honestly, I didn't expect him to actually have become the leader after all this time. But I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures."

"That's... not what I'd expect to hear from you."

Kamski lets out a chuckle here. "Gavin's always been the type to shoot first and ask later. Another understandable viewpoint, given our history, but still it is one I don't… appreciate as much as he does."

Anderson responds to those words with a snort. "That much, I suppose I can agree."

"I'd be surprised if you didn't. We are both, after all, men of science. Curiosity should always be our defining feature." A pause once more. "Still, always best to be careful about such things. These walls are thin, and you never know who could be listening in."

Connor's heart leaps to his chest the moment he hears that, and he covers his mouth with his hand to keep himself from gasping loudly. There's no way that Kamski wouldn't have said something like that without meaning. He _has_ to know that Connor is listening in. And that is... well, that is probably not good at all. His heart pounds in his chest as adrenaline coursing through him, and the urge to hurry back to his own office screams in his mind. He needs to do that, _now_.

Whatever Anderson says in response to Kamski, Connor does not hear it, for every part of him has turned its focus to getting himself back to his office and his cot. His body hurts even more now after staying upright for so long but the adrenaline gives him the boost he needs to push himself off the wall and start walking, getting a headstart before either Kamski or Anderson can walk out of the office and around the corner to spot him.

He tries to focus on hearing for any possible footsteps, but with how much energy he needs just to keep himself moving it's impossible to concentrate on anything else. All Connor can do is to tell himself to keep on going and hope he can get to his destination fast enough to not get caught.

With the wall as his support and the adrenaline continuing to fuel him Connor more or less power walks (or more accurately, power hobbles) the short distance from where he'd been listening in to where his room is. By the time he gets there most of said adrenaline has faded, and the aches in his body threaten to undermine him. Fortunately, however, he'd left the door to his office open earlier when he was making his way out, and so Connor makes use of that by grabbing the doorknob and shifting his own weight in order to have it swing back shut—and bring him back inside as well while at it.

The moment he's back inside Connor takes a second to make sure that the door is properly closed, and then he leans against it while he takes a breather. After all of that Connor knows that once he gets back onto his cot he's not going to be able to get up for a good while. Which is... pretty fair, considering how much he had exerted himself over this. For the most part it'd been worth it for what he'd managed to hear, but at the same time what he _did_ hear now only leads to more unanswered questions. Just how, exactly, is Anderson involved in any of this? Yes, he arrived with Sean Hampton on that fateful first night, but that doesn't really mean anything. There were countless sick and injured out on the streets due to the current epidemic. Anderson could have just found him on the way over and decided to take him in. The point is that Connor knows he'll get nothing by considering that particular angle. There's just far too many probabilities there.

The more likely candidate would be all those constant excursions that Anderson sets out on—from what he'd overheard it's clear that Kamski is also aware of those outings. Perhaps even more than just being 'aware', given how he'd mentioned Anderson having encounters with the Guard of Priwen. Which is yet another mystery all on its own.

Connor lets out a heavy breath and presses a palm to his face. There's just... so much now, unanswered. Mysteries upon mysteries that will not stop gnawing at his mind every waking hour. It felt like a lifetime ago when things were hard, but at least uncomplicated. When had that all changed?

 _You know when,_ his mind answers for him. Things have only been getting from bad to worse since Crane had resigned from her post. Or, if Connor can admit to himself, it'd been a slow spiral ever since Anderson came to join the hospital.

It sickens him inside to think that, to pin the blame on somebody who he'd held in such high regard. But Connor knows he can't let something like that blind him to the truth, as much as it hurts. He has to admit to himself at this point that there is something going on with Anderson—something that might threaten the patients and staff of Pembroke. He doesn't know exactly what that is, but at this point he knows he has to find out, one way or another, no matter how scared he might be of said truth. Not right now, of course, but... later. Once he recovers. But while that happens he can try to start digging wherever he can.

Connor is well aware of how he’d just been telling himself not too long ago how he shouldn't try to pry more, but perhaps it's better to simply think of it as more of... not being too deliberate about it. He definitely has no desire to get even more hurt—or worse, killed—in the course of trying to find his answers, but it's not like staying in the dark is going to serve him any better. He simply wants to know... enough. Enough to understand. Enough to no longer be afraid of all the unknowns out there lurking in the dark, twisted streets of London.

Perhaps that is an impossible thing to accomplish. But Connor would rather have at least tried instead of shutting himself out and pretend that nothing is wrong. He’s seen that happen enough with his peers back at the West End, and the last thing he wants is to be just as ignorant and selfish as they are. There’s already enough of those people out there as it is. He has to be better than that, and he won’t let his fear cripple him like every other time.

He can do it. He _has_ to do it, because nobody else will.


	5. Chapter 5

The world, as Connor is rudely reminded on the very next day, does not really want to work with the decisions that you have made for yourself. Though eager to throw himself back into his work, his body has apparently decided otherwise for him. Turns out even if one is lucky enough to avoid any fractures despite being thrown into a wall, it still doesn’t take away the various other injuries that come from something like that. 

As much as he hates to admit it, there is little that he can do that won’t end up with him hurting himself even more than he already is. And while Connor could be stubborn enough to push on despite that, the fact is that making himself worse wouldn’t just affect him; it’d affect the rest of the staff, and more importantly the patients that’d been under his care.

So it is for their sake that Connor lets himself stay in his office for the day, only allowing himself to do some necessary paperwork in-between his periods of resting up. For the most part, it seems to work; by the time night falls Connor feels reasonably better compared to how he’d felt in the morning. The aches are something he’ll have to get used to, though, at least until his injuries have had more time to heal.

Since he’d been more or less holed up in his room for the whole day he isn’t terribly surprised to hear a knock at his door—some of the staff have been coming up to his room across the day, either for work or to check on him—but what does surprise him is the low, gravelly rumble of Anderson’s voice coming through the other side of the door.

"It's me, Anderson,” he says, as if there could be anyone else with a voice like his. “Do you have a moment to speak?"

Memories of the previous night instantly flash across Connor’s mind, reminding him of the things that he’d overheard (including Kamski’s cryptic words at the end) and feels his blood turn cold. If Kamski really _did_ know, then was it possible that he asked Anderson to come to his room to…?

God. Connor senses his panic starting to rise and quickly attempts to squash it back down. With how panicked he feels it’s probably a miracle that he doesn’t end up squeaking out his next words. "I, uh. Is it urgent?"

"Partially, yes."

 _Partially_ is not really the answer Connor had been expecting. He feels like he could point out how that gives him leeway to say no, although he's certain that won't really get him anywhere. Anderson's sudden… gentleness (for lack of a better word) is a little surprising—but ultimately it more or less means nothing since Connor highly doubts he’ll be able to ask Anderson to kindly leave and never come back for the next two weeks or something.

Still, that doesn't mean he's going to let himself just take all of this lying down like he’s some doormat. "Just—give me a minute," he calls out before he starts slowly hobbling back to his cot from his desk. While he could force his body and manage a brisk walk, this time Connor opts to take it as easy as possible, letting himself have a break after how much he'd exerted himself across the day. (And also, of course, to delay however much time he can before he is forced to let Anderson into his room. Maybe this is unnecessarily petty of him, but Connor feels like he needs that right now because he feels like the rest of his life is currently slowly spiraling out of his control.)

But try as he might, there's only so long Connor can delay the inevitable; that much becomes clear to him the moment he sits down on the cot and turns to stare at the still closed door of his office. Even if he hadn't eavesdropped on the conversation last night Connor can make a couple of guesses as to what Anderson has come to 'talk' to him about. Connor can't say that he's looking forward to any of it. 

He allows himself to sigh once, loud and heavy, shifting to settle a little more comfortably on his cot before finally calling out to the man standing outside his room. "Alright. You can come in."

The door swings open as soon as he says that, and Anderson steps in. He lets go of the door once he's inside, and Connor watches it close back shut with a rather audible _click_. It’s a sound he’s heard millions of times, but right now Connor can’t help but think that right now it's sounds a lot closer to hammering in the nails of his personal coffin. 

Connor swallows down a lump that's decided to make itself evident in his throat, and when he turns to see Anderson looking at him with an unreadable expression he feels another making its way back up. The discomfort he feels now is very, very real, and Connor doubts it's going to get any better from here.

Anderson speaks first. "How are you feeling?"

"...could be better." So, small talk first then, it seems. It's never been Connor's favorite thing to do, and right now he likes it even less. He would appreciate it more if Anderson just got straight to the point instead of slowly circling around him as if he's some hapless prey. "At least I'm not dead."

It's impossible to miss Anderson's quiet wince at those words. "Yes," he responds, after a brief pause. "It's very fortunate that you are alive."

Connor manages a shrug. "I think I'd feel more fortunate if I hadn't been caught up in this in the first place." Perhaps the worst thing about it all is that Connor hadn't even gotten these injuries because of his curiosity, or anything else where he could've taken responsibility for his own course of action. Instead, he is in this state because he'd simply been doing his _job_. It's hard to not feel a little embittered over this. 

This time the expression on Anderson's face is apologetic. "Nobody expected this to happen," he says, and underneath it all Connor can hear the slightly stricken tone in his voice. He'd heard that same tone from him last night, during his conversation with Kamski. It really does seem like Anderson is shouldering the burden and responsibility of what Hampton’s done. It makes sense, of course, since he did bring the man here, but at the same time the things that Connor had witnessed in that room had been so clearly inhuman. How could anybody have been able to predict that kind of thing?

It's those thoughts that cause him to let out a heavy sigh. "If you want to ask your questions, then make it quick. I certainly don't want to spend the rest of the night dwelling on something I'd be happy to never remember again."

"...my apologies." Anderson looks pretty sheepish here, at least, which is a look Connor should not at all find endearing at this time. Or rather, _especially_ at this time. He's supposed to be annoyed, for crying out loud. 

Connor huffs and looks away. "It's fine," he returns, voice curt. "Just make it quick. I'm tired."

"Very well." Since Connor is still looking away from Anderson he can't exactly see his face, but from the tone of his voice it seems like the discomfort is still there. It almost makes Connor feel a little vindictive. Almost. 

It takes a second before Anderson starts his questions. "How did you find out what was going on?"

That one is easy, at least. "I didn't. I went in because Harriet Jones was the last patient I needed to check in on before I could end my shift. Hampton was already inside when I entered the room."

Anderson hums. "And you didn't think it strange for Hampton to go in?"

"It's not the first time he's done it." Connor pauses. He can all but feel Anderson's perplexed expression about what he’d just said, and so he elaborates. further "He's been talking to Jones pretty much ever since he could get up on his feet. Most of the staff have caught him in there at some point or another. We kept telling him to go back to his own bed, but..." In a way, Connor supposes he is to blame for that; if he and the other staff—especially him—had made more of an effort to keep Hampton away, could they have prevented this from happening? It'd been rather clear in the last few days before all this that Hampton had been trying to insist Harriet about _something_. It wouldn't be a stretch to assume that the reason behind what Hampton did might be related to whatever he'd been discussing with her.

Which only makes less sense as to why Hampton had ended up killing her instead. While Connor certainly did see the terrible state of her body back then, he was pretty sure that he’d seen her still breathing. But Kamski had seemed so certain about it when he said it, and Connor sees no reason why he should doubt that...

He gives another heavy sigh. "We should've been more vigilant,” he mutters, unable to stop that little bit of darkness creeping into his voice. “But ever since Nurse Crane left, everyone's been more overworked than ever."

The words being about the slightest of pauses from Anderson. "...her work in Pembroke had been extraordinary,” he eventually says, "I am saddened by her loss here, too."

 _Then why can't you just tell me what happened to her,_ are the words that sit right on the tip of Connor's tongue, but he holds it steady. As much as it hurts him, Connor knows that right now is far from the best time to push on that matter. This whole thing with Harriet and Hampton is far more important, especially if murder is truly involved. 

He forces himself to turn back to Anderson. "I'm not sure about the exact nature of what Hampton and Jones talked about, but I'm fairly certain that it has to relate to what he did."

Anderson frowns at his words. "What makes you so certain?"

At this point, it's still mostly a theory, but the more Connor thinks about it, the more convinced he feels. "As I've mentioned, Hampton's always been knocking on Jones' door since he could get up. But he started to get a lot more insistent about it in the last couple of days. The moment the staff take their eyes off him he'd go straight to her room and talk again. We were starting to discuss options about shifting Hampton somewhere further away from her room." A familiar sense of regret swells up inside of him as he says that. They should have acted faster, should have done things sooner—but they'd all been so swamped with work that Connor knows that there's really nothing anybody could have truly done, and somehow having that knowledge only makes it hurt more.

Connor watches the way Anderson's lips twist into a grim line, his expression easily showing exactly how bothered he feels regarding this information. He's silent for another moment, but eventually asks, "Would you be able to recount exactly what happened, from your perspective?"

If given the chance Connor would rather not, but he also knows that Anderson will need all the information he can have in order to do... whatever it is that Kamski wants him to do. Find Hampton, perhaps? Not that Connor knows what Anderson will do once he does locate him. He supposes it's none of his business, even though he feels like it should be considering that Hampton _did_ attack and injure him.

"I was..." he begins, taking a second to let himself gather up whatever energy he can muster up so that he can go through this. "I was nearing the end of my round, and Jones was the last patient I had to check up on.” Connor is well aware that he's mentioned that prior, but he's thankful that Anderson isn't the type to point that out. The recounting is more for himself than the other man, anyway. "When I got closer to her room, I noticed that Hampton wasn't at his bed again."

A quiet hum from Anderson. "He was already in her room by this point, I take it."

"Yes." Connor nods as he responds. "Or at least I'd guessed as much at the time." He's pretty sure he doesn't need to explain the whole thing between them one more time. "Either way, it wasn't anything that gave me concern, since he's done it so often by then."

He notices some foreign, unfathomable expression briefly cross over Anderson's face then, causing Connor to pause. Despite his relative fame in the world of medical science, there truly is a lot about Anderson that remains an elusive mystery. Connor wonders if he's always been like that, or if this had only happened due to the war. He'd been lucky enough to not have been called out to the trenches, though he knows that he will never truly understand what it must have been like to be in something so terrible. If the war is indeed the reason as to why Anderson is like this, then Connor certainly can't blame him for that.

Anderson remains silent, so Connor takes that as his cue to continue speaking. "Assuming he was in Jones' room, I stepped in with the intention to ask him to leave so that I could check up on Jones without interruption. But when I walked in..." 

He trails off then as the memories come rushing back to him once more, and the images in his mind are so clear that it feels like the details could jump right out at him. His stomach flips, and the urge to vomit swells up from within.

Anderson apparently manages to pick up on his discomfort. "You don't have to go into detail, if you don't want to." 

Connor shakes his head in return even as he struggles to keep his breathing steady so that he doesn't hyperventilate. "No, its—its fine." Since the memory is already right there, as it were, Connor would rather just get it over and done with instead of having to do this again at a later date. And besides, the sooner this is all settled, the quicker he can put this behind him and move on with his life.

Anderson frowns, looking not at all convinced by Connor's response. "Are you sure?" he asks, still very clearly trying to give him an out if he desires it; a gesture Connor certainly appreciates, but he knows to do what is best for himself. He takes a second to draw in a deep breath, holding it in until the nausea ebbs away and Connor no longer feels like he's liable to hurl out whatever's in his stomach. 

He answers the moment he feels recovered enough to speak. "Yes, I'm sure." Pause. "Trust me."

Another unreadable expression crosses over Anderson's face then as he stares at Connor, who this time doesn't let himself shy away from the other's gaze. He knows that Anderson's concern is out of kindness, but at the same time Connor doesn't want to be seen as... _weak_. He's fought a long, hard road to get to where he is today, and the last thing he wants is for anything or anyone to undermine his abilities. 

The staring continues for a while longer, but eventually Anderson backs away. He turns around and lets out a quiet sigh. "If you insist." It's easy enough to hear the near bitter resignation in his voice, which is odd considering the circumstances. But this isn't the time to pry.

Connor takes another breath, bracing himself for what he has to say next, and lets himself go for it. "I saw Hampton holding up Jones by her neck. Her body was—writhing, twisting right before my eyes. Parts of her were bloated, like air had been forced into there against her will." Recalling the memory as he talks about it now makes him shudder horribly, especially as the images show up in his mind. "But I think... I think she was still alive, even then."

There's a lengthy pause from Anderson this time before he speaks. "What makes you say that?"

And now here Connor has to take a moment of his own, too, as he thinks about it. If he had to be honest the only reason why he'd felt that was simply nothing more than simply just what his intuition told him. There's no real basis for it, no proof that he can provide to solidify his claims, but he just... knows. And Connor is well aware of how weak all of this has to sound—as men of science hard evidence is the one true way to prove anything. Things such as gut feelings or intuition are at best nothing more than conjectures that the mind creates. By all means and accounts Connor shouldn't even entertain this notion.

Yet... it is all that he has. Or perhaps it is the only thing he can have, because there is no way that science will be able to explain everything that he'd seen and witnessed and experienced there that night.

"I just..." he finally lets himself answer the question, as shaky as it is even in his own mind. But it's all that he knows. "...hoped, I suppose." Another brief pause, and then Connor elaborates further. "If Hampton truly intended to kill Jones, there is no reason why he would have waited for so long to do it. Not to mention that when he actually committed the deed he could have done so in so many other ways that are much cleaner and more efficient, given the tools that are available in the hospital. So why go through the trouble of ending her life in such a brutal manner?"

Anderson huffs. "He might not have been of sound mind,” he replies, “That could explain his odd decisions."

Connor blinks when he hears Anderson respond—and exactly how he did so. He'd fully expected for his answer to be dismissed right off the bat at worst, or to be put aside and never talked about again at best. He never once considered the idea that Anderson might somehow... actually believe him. It's surreal, to be entirely honest.

Surprised as he is, It takes a second for Connor to realize that Anderson is waiting for his retort. He quickly puts aside said surprise to deal with later and returns his focus to their impromptu discussion. "I think both of us are well aware of how to tell the difference between one who isn't of sound mind and who is. Hampton clearly falls into the latter category."

Anderson makes a wince at that, as if recalling something particularly unpleasant. Connor can make a few guesses as to what (or to be more specific, who) he might be thinking of. There is a reason why Connor doesn't really go to the part of the building where Thelma Howcroft resides at.

It takes a second before Anderson manages to find his voice. "So, you think Hampton didn't kill Harriet Jones."

Connor gives himself a moment to think about it and make sure that is indeed what he is saying. "No, I don't think he did," he confirms with a nod. "Or at the very least, killing her was not his ultimate intention."

"If so, then what do you think his true motive was?"

Well, if Connor knew _that_ , then they wouldn’t be here right now. "I couldn't say." He gives a small shake of his head as he replies. "But my best guess is that it would be related to whatever he'd been persuading her upon."

Anderson nods. "I know you've said that you aren't privy about whatever they've discussed, but is there anyway you can make a guess? Something either or both of them might have mentioned in your presence?"

Connor feels like he could easily say no here and know it to be true, but he feels like he at least owes Anderson a try for not dismissing what would be an otherwise baseless claim earlier. So he racks his brain, running through his memories of all the times he talked with one or both of them, trying to see if there's anything he can pick up from those conversations. Considering the length of time that both Hampton and Harriet had stayed in Pembroke, there is a fair bit of those occurrences to recall right on the spot. But Connor didn't become a doctor through luck or connections like som had—he'd studied hard, and more importantly, he'd developed his own methods of recollection that's helped him more than once when he'd been in a tough spot. He knows this isn't wholly the same thing, but the urgency and seriousness of the matter more than makes up for it.

(And also perhaps the fact that Connor can acutely feel the intensity of Anderson's gaze upon him, but that's neither here nor there. At least not right now.)

After a few minutes of remembering the best that he can of what he's witnessed and heard from the both of them, Connor feels like he can draw out several similar factors and phrases that he'd heard Hampton mention more than once in all of those instances. 

"Hampton, he..." Connor pauses for a second here, just to make sure he has the right words prepared. The last thing he wants is to accidentally give Anderson incorrect information.

Anderson, however, seems to have lost his usual patience now that Connor is apparently onto something. "What is it?" he asks, just barely hiding the harried tone in his voice.

"In the last few days, he'd constantly bring up an associate of his." As Connor talks about it aloud the memory of just a few days prior floats back to him—that same day (or rather, night) where he'd attempted to question Anderson about Crane only to fall flat on his face dead asleep. _That_ Connor doesn't want to particularly recall; what he does want to remember during that day rather is something that Hampton—and in turn, Harriet—had said. Something that he hadn't really thought much of back then but now can't help but feel like it is relevant. "He said that they could help Miss Jones with her condition, somehow."

Anderson blinks in surprise, but then quickly frowns again. "Hampton said that?"

Connor recalls his memories of his most recent visits to Harriet before all of this happened. "Yes. I believe whatever he'd been persuading her about probably has something to do with that." It's his best speculation, but still a speculation nonetheless. There's no way to really know the truth short of asking Hampton himself, but after what he'd done... it's impossible to say if the man is even safe to get close to, let alone have a conversation with.

Anderson's frown remains on his face, though he lets out a hum. "I suppose he didn't give any details about who this associate of his might be?"

Connor shakes his head, confirming as much. "No, he didn't." That certainly would've been nice, but life isn't exactly a mystery story; people aren't just going to coincidentally let slip something that'd be found later—

His thoughts come to a halt then as his mind suddenly pulls out a certain remark that Harriet had made about Hampton during that particular conversation. Something he'd totally brushed aside before, but now sees with newfound relevance.

Anderson must have seen the sudden look of realization that's no doubt dawning on his face. "What is it?" he asks, "What do you remember?"

"She mentioned something about—a shelter?" Or rather, she had been mocking Hampton about it. Connor hadn't thought too much of it back then, but now... 

Another blink from Anderson, and just like with Connor, the realization now dawns upon his face, too. "The shelter. Of course." He lets out a breath, as if berating himself for not having thought of it earlier. "The saint won't leave his flock behind, after all."

Connor can feel those words fly over his head. He's just been so busy with everything here that he's paid little to no attention to anything that happens beyond these walls. He's well aware that it's not exactly a good thing, but with how things are it's simply impossible to keep track of anything that doesn't directly concern him or the patients that are directly in his care.

Anderson flashes him a small, apologetic smile, probably because he's taken notice of the confusion that Connor did not hide well. "My apologies, Dr. Arkay. Please take no heed to what I've said. Things must be stressful enough for you as it is."

With his injuries, how overworked he feels, and the fact that Harriet is kidnapped—if not dead—when under his care, stressful is perhaps the most gentle way to describe how he currently feels. 

Regardless, Connor still nods. "Times have been hard for all of us." It is the most diplomatic answer he can manage at this point in time. No matter what he feels, he knows that nothing will come out of lashing out—especially when Anderson's done nothing to deserve it. Doubly so when he's going out of his way to take responsibility for this even though he could have not done so. It might have been Anderson who brought Hampton here, but it is a fact that both he and Harriet were under Connor's care at that point in time. If anything, he should be the one trying to handle this. 

The knowledge and awareness of that burns a hole in Connor's mind, causing him to duck his head and bite down on a weary sigh. "Please, if there's anything that I can do to help... let me know."

With how Anderson is, Connor of course expects his offer to be rebuffed, but what he doesn't expect is the sensation of a large, warm hand on his shoulder as Anderson reaches over to apparently pat him on said shoulder. Connor quickly raises his head up then, surprised, and is greeted by a pair of brilliant blue eyes that shimmer with warmth.

"I appreciate the offer," he rumbles out, voice and tone both equally gentle. "I truly do. But you've suffered enough because of my mistake. Please, trust me to handle it. I promise you I will bring back both Hampton and Harriet in one piece."

Part of Connor wonders what exactly Anderson means by this being 'his mistake', but a larger part of him is distracted by the warmth of his hand on his shoulder—and more importantly the closeness of their proximity to each other, given the fact that Anderson had to lean in order to give said pat on the shoulder.

It takes a second before Connor manages to find his voice to respond. "I... yes, I trust you." That much is the truth; though there are still some minor reservations, for the most part Connor _does_ trust Anderson. Or at the very least, he trusts him enough to leave this whole thing into his hands to deal with. "I know you'll bring them back."

With their closeness Connor can see something disquieting flash across Anderson's blue eyes, but it vanishes before he can fully commit what he'd seen to memory.

"Yes," Anderson says after a pause, "I will. I have to." His voice is softer than ever, yet it carries the faintest hint of an emotion that Connor feels he's merely peering over the edge of. As much as he wants to ask, he knows this is not the time to indulge in his curiosity. He doubts Anderson would answer him anyway even if he did.

Anderson withdraws his hand from his shoulder as he pulls back, and Connor pointedly ignores the cold that rushes in without the other's closeness. He watches as Anderson looks towards the door, most likely considering his next course of action. "Thank you for taking the time to speak with me," he says, "I won't disturb you any further. I wish you a speedy recovery." 

He doesn't wait for a response to that. As soon as he finishes Anderson takes another step back and turns, and all Connor can do is to watch him as he walks to the door and opens it, then vanishes from his sight once he steps past the threshold and lets the door swing back shut behind him.

Connor doesn't know how long he spends staring at the door, or how long his mind lingers to the memory of those blue eyes that'd been so close to his face for those scant few moments. He feels something in his chest lurch as his mind replays the memory, and if wasn't already certain before, he knows for sure now that he needs to put this ridiculous crush behind him before it becomes too obvious.

 _He is married,_ Connor reminds himself with a hiss. _He had a wife._ Even if she's already passed away, it doesn't change the fact of where Anderson’s interests so obviously lie. Which makes what he feels for Anderson even less of a thing that he can talk about.

No, he needs to get over this. The sooner the better. And then perhaps things can actually start to return to some semblance of normalcy. A bit of a far fetched dream at this point, but it is all that he can look forward to, because any other alternative would just be far too much to handle at one go.

Connor looks down to his hands and slowly clenches them, teeth gritting at the pain that shoots up his arms from the action.

The pain is good. The pain reminds him of his mistakes. Mistakes that he will never let happen again, because he knows he will have to move on, and soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Mind control stuff happens, though nothing explicit comes from it. Just be wary, in case its not your cup of tea.

Given what happened, it's impossible to say that everything has returned to normal, even after several nights. For one, the ward where Harriet was staying in remains an absolute mess, and with the number of patients that had decided to take their leave due to the incident Pembroke is noticeably emptier. As much as Connor wants to say that he's glad for the reduced workload, given his still recovering injuries, knowing the _why_ behind it does well to damper those feelings. If the patients are outside of Pembroke then they are beyond his jurisdiction, and thus beyond his help. Normally that’d be a good thing, but considering the condition of some of those patients who had left...

The knowledge burns in his mind, made even worse by the realization of his limits, both external as well as internal. The injuries he'd received at the hands of Hampton still throb and ache when he strains himself just a little too far, and it's a stark reminder of everything that had happened. Though Connor is certain that he will still remember all of this even long after these injuries have healed.

But the fact that they are still here, so present and fresh, means that Connor is forced to confront the reality of his own limits. He can try all he wants, give everything that he can offer, but in the end there is truly only so much he can do. For every life he manages to save, there is another that is lost to the epidemic. Even with the reduced number of patients now the corpses at the back of the hospital continue to pile ever higher, and the stench of the dead is almost a familiarity now. 

It reeks even harder on this particular night, though Connor wonders if that is because there isn't the usual swathe of patients and staff around for once. Most of the staff had opted to take time off as well after what'd happened, something that Connor would have perhaps done himself if he didn't feel as... responsible about it as he did. Even Kamski had assured him the other day that he didn't hold Connor responsible for what transpired, but the guilt eats at him anyway, heavy and present in his gut.

Connor is well aware that said guilt is why he's still here despite the fact that really isn't much for him to do at all now, given present circumstances. At any other time he would have taken this chance and actually returned home—it has been a while since he’d visited his patron—but responsibility compels him to stay. And while he knows that nobody holds him accountable, Connor still feels like he has to do _something_ to make up for his mistake. It's selfish of him, perhaps, but he can't put this matter behind him until he knows he's done something worthy enough as penance.

The sound of his own footsteps echo in his ears as he walks around a far emptier Pembroke. It's not wholly empty, of course; there are still patients who have remained—be it by choice or the lack of one due to their personal circumstances—and Kamski all but lives in here himself. But compared to how it'd been just a week ago... It's far too easy to see and feel how different things are now. Connor just wishes it had been for better reasons instead of what actually happened.

...no point continuing to dwell on it. Connor shakes his head and sighs, turning around as he glances at his surroundings. He dislikes this particular night of quiet, but he supposes if there's really nothing left for him to do here he could go back to his office and handle some paperwork that he hasn't gotten around to from before any of this happened—

Connor hears it before he sees it; the clattering of metal which turns out to be a blade, dropped right at the front doors of the hospital. That alone would have been enough of a cause of concern, if not for something else that has even more of his attention: Anderson, looking like he'd just been through hell and back, currently holding himself up by resting his weight against the doorframe. He looks incredibly roughed up, and his clothes are tattered in more than several places; Connor sees that many of those tears are also darkened and stained with blood. In fact, there's so much blood that Connor can easily smell it even from where he is, and the scent of it is so strong that it makes his head spin a little. Just exactly how much blood had Anderson lost?

It's that thought which jerks him out of his surprised stupor. Connor rushes over to Anderson's side, panicking a little at just how much blood there is on him now that he's close enough to see. There's so much and it's _everywhere_ ; it'd be impossible for anyone to lose this much blood and survive. Impossible, unless...

"Anderson—" Connor starts, but cuts himself off when the man raises his head and stares at him with eyes that are not blue, but instead burns with a bright red-orange gleam that reminds him of hot coals.

Surprise and shock pass through Connor at the sight, making him hesitate, and that moment of hesitation is apparently all that Anderson (was it even him?) needs to move. He lunges up and moves his hand—faster than Connor can perceive—to slam his palm over Connor's face, the force of it strong enough to make his teeth rattle and his jaw to ache. Connor lets out a pained sound, but its muffled against the rough, calloused skin of Anderson's palm. Fear and terror grips him like a vice as he finds himself unable to do anything else except to stare at those eyes from the gaps between Anderson’s fingers, the intensity of their color boring straight into his skull. It holds him for as long as it takes for Anderson to straighten himself back up, and when he does now Connor can properly see the blood that's splattered across his face—blood, he somehow knows, that is not his own.

That's the last thought that crosses his mind before Anderson yanks him forward with the hand on his face and whispers into his ear, his voice hot and pulsing with an otherworldly power that pounds submission through his whole body. " _Follow me_."

The words wash over him like a lover's tender caress, and Connor shudders. His eyes roll to the back of his head as those two words sink into his mind and take root, overriding any other thoughts he once had. His concerns, his fears, his regret—it vanishes like dust in the wind, replaced with the need to _follow_ and _obey_.

“Yes,” he hears himself mumble, the sound of his own voice so small and insignificant and far away from him.

Apparently satisfied with the response, Anderson pushes him back to stand properly before letting go of his face. Connor stumbles, his feet and limbs suddenly heavy and uncooperative, but he manages to turn around and face forward after taking a moment to straighten himself. Anderson places his hand on the small of his back, and even through all the layers of clothing on Connor his touch still burns, like a iron-hot brand upon his skin. But there is no pain, only contentment, and his body thrums in anticipation for something he has no name for.

He waits until Anderson moves before he does as well, despite the fact that he's the one in front. But he'd been told to follow, and so it only makes sense that he waits. He walks, guided by Anderson at his back, his feet taking him to wherever it is that he needs to be. Every step he takes sends a pulse of hazy contentment through his mind, washing away the idea of doing anything else except to let Anderson lead him to their destination. There is nothing else more important to do than this.

Despite the fact that Connor's walked the halls of this place a million times the fog in his mind makes him forget. Nothing is familiar to him now except for the warmth of Anderson's hand on his back, still guiding him oh so nicely. They move, walking down a path that's both intimately familiar and completely brand new at the same time. They pass by the stairs, heading over to the other side of the building—the side that's been vacated since that night with Hampton.

In any other situation Connor would have never made himself come over here—at least not so soon after what happened. But right now that doesn't matter. He knows there is nothing to fear because Anderson is here with him. They just need a quiet spot where nobody else will find them. That's all there is to it. It's all perfectly natural and nothing to be concerned about.

Connor can feel the dreamy smile slowly making its way onto his face as they get closer to that lovely little dark corner where he knows Anderson wants them to be. It's nice and secluded, and the mess means nobody will come by and see them, which is perfect for what they want to do. What Anderson wants to do.

(What exactly did they want to do? The details elude him, but Connor doesn't worry, for there is nothing to worry about.)

They get to the corner, and Connor stops. He stays perfectly still even as part of him pangs over the loss of that wonderful warmth when Anderson pulls his hand away from his back. He knows he has to wait, because that's what Anderson would want from him. All he has to do is to wait a little, and he'll get what he wants.

(And what does he want? He certainly likes the man, yes, but he was married, and he's fairly certain he has a child, and there's no way he could ever be interested in a struggling workaholic like him—)

His thoughts stutter and disappear like smoke on the wind when Anderson's hands come back and touch him again. One of them grabs his shoulder to pull him back and rest against Anderson's large, warm body while the other cups his jaw, tilting his head and exposing his neck to the heat of the other's breath as he feels Anderson slowly exhale over the sensitive skin there.

" _Connor_ ," The sound of his name combined with the deep, dark rumble of Anderson’s voice sends a hot rush through his body, making him shiver against the far larger man. God, he didn’t know how _good_ his name would sound on Anderson’s lips. It’s outright heavenly. " _You smell so good._ "

The praise elicits another shiver as Connor sighs breathily. This close now, he can also smell Anderson in turn, and past the dark iron scent of blood there is something deep and musky—a wonderful earthy scent that Connor knows he can just sink into and give everything that he has. 

In fact, Connor thinks hazily, he will. He'll give Anderson anything if it means making him happy, and being able to feel like this all the time. This contentment is so much better than all the stress and worry that's been haunting him all this time.

Anderson growls, as if having heard the thoughts floating about in his head. His grip on Connor tightens, almost hard enough to fracture bone. Not that Connor would mind if that happened. He'd do anything if it meant being able to continue this, to still have Anderson's attention on him. That thought replays again when Anderson brings his mouth closer to his neck, and Connor feels something sharp and pointed grazing over his skin, threatening to pierce through his artery. It'd be an instant death should that happen.

It's only at that point does a single thought run by through Connor's mind, so small that it's almost lost in the sea of fog and acquiescence. 

_This is wrong, isn't it?_

In the very next moment, Connor feels a sweeping chill come through his body because Anderson's suddenly let go of him, pushing him aside as if he’d been burnt. 

"Christ," Connor hears him say, the echo from before now gone. "I—fuck. God, I could've—"

Since Connor's back is still turned to him there's no way for him to really see what Anderson is doing now. It doesn't occur for him to really turn back either, what with the blissful haze that he continues to drift in. It's not as wonderful as it'd been moments ago, but still nice enough to render him pliant and wanting. Because why wouldn't he want any of this? It only makes sense.

Anderson continues to mutter a string of expletives towards himself for the next several moments, and snatches of what he says floats to Connor's ears, though none of them truly sink into his mind.

"Shouldn't have come... just after her too... been more careful... don't need another accident..." A shuddering breath. "Fuck. I'm so sorry, Mary. And right after I promised to fix this."

Fix what? a part of Connor wonders, but that question floats away as soon as it'd come in his mind. The questions don't really matter, do they? There's nothing at all for him to be concerned about... right?

He feels himself begin to frown. Was there something he needed to concern himself with? He tries to push through the haze and the fog, attempting to recall what he'd been doing. He was in the halls of Pembroke, and then—

A hand grabs his shoulder before he can finish that thought, and Connor finds himself spun around to face Anderson who stares at him with eyes that are very definitely not in their usual blue color.

Fear rushes up to Connor then as he stares at those eyes, enough to break through the fog and hold him in terror as he tries to figure out what's going on. What was with those eyes? And why is there so much blood on him and his face—

“ _Sleep_ ," Anderson hisses out in-between gritted teeth, and the next thing that Connor knows is darkness.

* * *

It's been one week since the incident with Hampton. The ward and the area outside of it has been mostly cleaned up and patched, and with luck Connor hopes it'll be available to use again by the next night.

As he helps the attending nurse to tidy up the beds he feels the weight of somebody's gaze upon him, and so he turns, expecting to see a patient or one of the other nurses who might require him for something. But he sees nothing, save for the tailend of a deep bluegreen coat that disappears when its wearer walks off, despite the lack of footsteps that follow.

For the briefest of moments the memory of inhumanly bright red-orange eyes flash in his mind, but it vanishes as soon as it comes, causing him to frown for several moments.

"Dr. Arkay?" the voice of the nurse interrupts his train of thought before he can delve any deeper into them. The moment that happens the faint memory of those eyes vanish, dissipating like smoke on the wind. The sudden lapse is definitely something to consider, given how much Connor prides himself on his excellent recollection skills, but he supposes now isn’t the time and place for this—not when there are more important things at hand. 

Connor gives a small shake of his head and reminds himself to focus on the present. He looks to the nurse and smiles. "Sorry. Let's get back to this, shall we?"

The nurse gives her agreement, and together they continue their task of preparing the ward. As he works Connor idly wonders when he'll finally have a chance to talk to the latest staff member who Kamski's taken in to work here. What was his name again? Anderson, or something like that. Strange how he hasn't had any opportunity to talk to the man despite the fact that it'd already been several months.

Then again, maybe it's not so surprising. The epidemic keeps everyone busy, after all.

Connor hums a listless tune under his breath as he continues to work, completely oblivious to the large figure who quietly watches him from far away. By the time Connor senses something and turns to look, he sees nothing but the cloying thickness of London’s ever present midnight fog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end (so far)! I do plan to continue this AU sometime in the future - I've more or less have an idea of how to handle the rest of the plot - but its still up in the end as to when I'll actually do it. Until then, just assume things somehow work out in the end, maybe. :P
> 
> Feel free to follow me on my ~saucy adult Twitter~ **@tasonado**. If I post anything about this AU (and others), it'll most likely be there first.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who stuck through all of this, be it via Twitter or as I posted here. You guys rock. 
> 
> Until next time, peace.
> 
> \- taso :)


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